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shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^  (meaning  "CON- 
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whichever  applies. 

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method: 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin.  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nenet6  de  lexempiaire  film6.  et  en 
conformit*  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmaga. 

Los  axempiaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim*e  sont  fiim^s  en  commencant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empremte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration.  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  solon  le  cas    Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  film*s  en  commenpant  par  ia 
premi*re  page  qui  comporte  une  empremte 
a'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  dea  symboles  suivants  appara?tra  sur  la 
derniAre  imago  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  ie 
cas:  le  symbole  — ♦-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE ".  le 
symbole  V  sigmfie  "FIN '. 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  etre 
filmis  A  des  taux  do  r6duction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  soul  clich6.  il  est  fllm6  d  partir 
de  I'anglo  sup^rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  ^  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  pronant  le  nombre 
dimages  n^cossaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2 


.0 


l.i 


1.25 


■50      '"■■S 


1.4 


[12.5 
2.2 


1^         ^-^ 


1.8 


1.6 


A     APPLIED  irvMGE 


'555   test   Mo'H    Street 
-'ochester.  Ne«  York        U609       USA 
"6)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 
716)   288  -  5989  -  Fax 


CROWNED    AT     ELIM 


CROWNED 


A  T 


E  L  I  M 


BY 


STELLA     EUGENIE     ASLING 


■^^^t'^^ 


1903 

SMITH    &    WILKINS 

20/     West    Twenty-third    Street 

New   York 


M 


0./..vn*.-h(.    /f'"'' 
By  Sti:i.i-^   I-   Asi.iN"' 


I'KlNTi.i'  i.v  Till'.   KiAMUii   I'k: 
li  Kt^nleSuccL.  New  \  v-rU 


In  nunuiry  ol  the  latf 

Coi..   Sir   Ca>imiw   Stwisi.ms   < -/dUvki.  K.  C.  M.  (".. 

.'//'/  iiiln-r 

rAIKKII--    IN    I'XII.K 

ir//o,  thnni:h  rn,n;>r//n/  !,v  n.hcrsr  rircnmst.-nucs 
to  Irnvv  the  l;,wl  ,,f  t /:,-,,-  hirlh.  vet  hrnui^rht  tu 
tlic  voun-  h,n<!  ,,l  ihcr  .■></, >f>tiun  the  s.-irrw  hi^h 
inntives  .uiu  Christum  ehiv,-i!r\  uhieh  sn:ivc</  their 
hves  in  <l:irk  ,iml  irvin<^  limes.  :i,i<]  ^y/„,  l,;,y^,  jgf^ 
:i  ch'.n-  i,le.i/  nt  nhnt  ,<^o,)<l„ess  ;nul  purity  :,tu] 
nnhleness  i,„i>lies,  u'hieh  :ih>ne  ni.ikes  life  imniortnl 
-to  these  this  litth-  hook  is  yrntetully  ,/e,Iicnte(f 
f>v    the  Author. 


r 


CROJVNED    AT    ELIM. 


CHAPTER    I. 


RIVFRSIDH,  I  shall  still  call  it.  though  now  in 
the  calm  dignitx-  of  its  old  age  the  inhabitants 
have  called  it  by  a  name  signitying  peace. 
Though  it  is  now  but  a  sleepy  village  yet  the  mem- 
ory of  its  former  greatness  still  linj^ers  about  it, 
lending  an  air  of  romance  to  tlie  untciinnled  l)uild- 
ings.  mossgrown  bridges,  and  dilapidated  mills,  as 
illusive,  yet  interesting,  as  tlie  subtle  jjcrfume  which 
greets  us  on  opening  a  long-closed  ])ackage  of  faded 
roses.  The  very  people  seem  to  partake  of  the  fpial- 
ities  of  the  town,  .\fter  vou  have  soionriicd  amon-^ 
them  for  a  little,  you  have  a  susjjicion  that  the  hand 
of  time  has  been  turned  back  from  the  o])ening  years 
of  the  twentieth  century  to  the  early  fifties  of  the 
nineteenth.  The  throbbing,  pulsating  li!e  of  the  busy 
age  seems  never  to  disturb  their  placid  ways.  When 
they  s])eak  it  is  with  a  dignified  yet  courteous  re- 
serve, which  seems  to  imply  that  they  have  a  history 
worth  telling,  did  they  but  choose  to  tell  it.  Rut 
they  come  of  canny  stock,  those  Riverside  ])eo))le, 
and    do    not   take   kindly  to  a  stranuer.      Thev  will 


i 


2  CROWNED    AT    ELIM. 

admit,  however,  that   those   were  prosperous   days 
when   people  brought   their  grain   from    East    and 
West,  and  from  up  about  the  hikes,  to  be  giound  at 
the  great  stone  mill  on  the  river;  and  will  still  si)eak 
bitterly   of  the   railway  eompany  whieh   took  that 
trade  away,  and  formed  a  town  a  few  miles  distant. 
And  if  you   are   remarkably  elever  at  extraeting  in- 
formation, they  may  tell  you  that  the  town  owes  its 
inception    to   the  enterprising  capacity    of  a  single 
mind;   that   about  1S30  a  rich  landowner  (whom, 
for  tiie  sake  of  convenience,   we  shall  call    Robert 
Murray)  when  riding  about  in  the  dense  Canadian 
forests",    came    upon    a    pictures(iue,    wildly-rushing 
river.     The  many  waterfalls  attracted  his  attention, 
and  being  a  shrewd  business  man  he  immediately 
conceived   the  idea  of  establishing    a    town  in   its 
vicinity.      Obtaining  a  grant  of  land  he  at  once  set 
to  work  to  erect  mills  and  factories  at  the  waterfalls; 
houses  for  his   men   were  built  in  due  course ;  then 
followed  stores  for  supplies,  a  blacksmith  shop,  post- 
office,  church  and  school.     As  trade  increased,  hotels, 
or  more  properly  inns,  were  required,  and  thus  River- 
side became  a  cc  mplete  little  town.      As  stcme  was 
lyir. ,'  about  in  immense  quantities,  it  was  used  for 
all  building  purposes.      And   the  people  who  came, 
whether  bv  design  or  accident  it  is  impossil)le  to  say, 
came  from  the  land  of  the  heather     This,  then,  is  the 
reason  that  the  little   town   had  impressed  us  with 
an  air  of  Scottish  simplicity   and  substantiality  on 
(uir  arrival. 

Atid  now  having  obtained  so  much  information, 
nothing  more  can  we  get  from  Riverside  residents, 
thousili    we   trv   witli  many   wiles.     So   we  saunter 


CROWNED     AT     HLIM.  3 

along  the  little  street,  past  the  well  kept  hedges, 
past  the  stone  walls  which  enclose  smooth  green 
lawns,  on  over  the  bridge  where  the  water  rushes 
down  into  the  chasm  at  our  fe*"t,  and  still  on,  follow- 
ing the  bending  river  till  we  reach  the  second  bridge, 
and  herein  sight  of  all  things  which  TremaZamoyski 
loved,  and  which  are  still  haunted  by  her  memory, 
we  pause  reverently,  reluctant  to  lift  our  unskillful 
pen  to  record  the  history  of  those  who  now  for  years 
have  lain  silent  in  the  dust.  Here  is  the  bridge 
Trema  crossed  manj'  times;  there  the  mill,  now 
silent  forever;  and  just  at  our  feet  the  path  along 
which  she  tripped  that  June  morning  with  her  new- 
found friend.  And  so  we  sit  and  dream  till  the  old 
days  come  back,  and  the  bones  of  the  valley  stir  and 
come  together,  and  stand  up  clothed  with  life,  ready 
to  take  their  place  on  the  little  stage  whei  they 
played  their  part  so  long  ago. 


One  of  the  first  settlers  of  Riverside  was  Donald 
Bell.  In  a  short  time  he  had  grown  to  be  one  of  the 
principal  men  of  the  place.  He  was  a  general  mer- 
chant—dealer in  groceries,  dry  goods,  boots  and 
sho''  drugs  and  hardware.  He  was  also  postmas- 
ter. As  might  be  imagined,  Donald,  having  monop- 
olized so  many  departments  of  trade,  was  kept  very 
busy.  It  was  noon  hour  of  a  warm  spring  day,  and 
as  there  was  a  lull  in  business,  Donald  stretched 
himself  u|)on  the  counter  for  a  little  rest.  The  hum 
of  the  mill,  the  traffic  oi  the  street,  the  falling  of  the 
water,  all  came  soothingly  to  him  from  a  distance; 
the  bees  hummed  in  the  warm  sunshine,  and  Donald 
slept.    He  was  rudely  awakened  from  his  mid-day 


CRcWXnn     AT     ELIM. 


iifip,  however,  l)y  the  entrance  of  Malcolm  Mc- 
Kinnon. 

"'loo  are  ye  the  day,  Donald?  (iey  ^v'eel,  I've 
nae  (loot,  for  it's  no  wark  wnd  niak  ye  ill,  a  lyin' 
foriver  on  yir  back." 

"  I  will  be  thinkinti,  Malcolm,  that  it  is  not  thy 
bissness  if  I  will  be  lyins^  down,  or  if  1  will  be  stand- 
nig  up." 

"  Ma  certes,  Donald,  dinna  be  vexed.  I  maun 
hae  ye  seal  tliis  letter  wi'  a  bittie  o'  wax  afore  ye 
stani})  it,  an'  I'll  tak  some  yellow  ochre  as  weel.  Its 
hoose  cleanin'  time,  ye  ken,  an'  the  wifie  maim  jjie 
the  floor  anither  coat  o'  paint.  There's  a  family 
cam  frae  the  ceety  an'  ta'en  '  Vinemount.'  Ye'U  hae 
lieerd  al)oot  it,  na-.'  doot,  an'  Ivlspeth  maun  hae 
everything  sjnc  an'  sj>an,  so  they'll  no  be  finer  than 
she.  Its  the  wy  wi'  the  women  folk.  Afore  I  wud 
fash  masd'  aboot  a  family  o'  Roosians  !  " 

"I  wass  hearing  Willie  Robertson  say  the  lady 
wass  no  Russian  at  all,  but  an  English  woman." 

'•I'm  thankfu'  tae  ken  it,"  said  Malcolm.  "Its 
an  awfu'  thing  tae  hae  a  family  o'  heathenish  Roos- 
ians come  in  tae  oor  quiet  Scotch  settlement  But 
her  guid  man  is  a  Roosian,  an'  nae  doot  aboot  it, 
for  I  heerd  Lawyer  Mac.Mpin,  as  drew  uj)  the  deed, 
say  that  o'  a'  the  names  ever  written  herccaboots, 
tlie  Roosians  was  the  worst.  Cashmere  Yamooshka, 
if  I  mind  it  richt.  Did  ye  ever  hear  o'  the  like? 
Aweel.  we  maun  jinst  bide  a  wee ;  maybe  thev'll  no 
dae  n-  much  harmn." 


\  inemoinit  had  a  history  of  its  own.     The  house 
was   liuilt  bv   Robert    Murrav,   and    stood    on    an 


CRowxnn    at   i:lim. 


i 


eminence  ovcrlookinj^  tlic  river  and  eonnlrvside.  It 
was  of  eoloninl  architecture,  and  its  wide  verandas 
su]);)orte(l  hy  pure  wliite  columns,  gave  a  stately  air 
to  the  house.  Ivven  the  most  ey.])erience(l  traveler, 
sated  with  the  beauties  of  many  lands,  wovdd  find 
the  view  from  the  jjortico  of  \'i:\etnount  ])leasinix. 
There  was  the  lawn  with  its  smooth  i^rass,  over 
which  the  stately  elms  and  ma|)les  cast  lou'j; 
shadows  in  the  morniuf^  hours;  the  drive,  eurviii,; 
around  a  clump  of  trees,  and  then  descendirij:  ;j:ra(l- 
ually  to  the  road  ])etween  two  rows  of  tall  firs. 
Across  tlie  road  the  land  sl()])ed  gently  to  the  river— 
a  rushin.<::,  tumblin,!^  stream,  which  forced  its  way 
between  two  walls  of  limestone  rock.  Beyond  the 
river  the  fields  were  l)f)unded  by  a  wooded  hill, which 
as  yet  liad  never  echoed  with  the  woodir.an's  a.\e. 
Half  a  mile  to  the  left,  the  spire  of  the  kirk  and  the 
chimneys  of  factories  told  where  Riverside  nestled 
out  of  sitjht  below  the  liill. 

Robert  Murray  lived  but  a  short  time  to  eniov 
his  new  ;U)ode.  He  lived  to  see  the  house  completed; 
to  see  the  <:;rounds  laid  out  as  he  desired;  to  see  his 
pet  schemes  a  success  in  the  villa^^e,  ther  he  died. 
He  left  no  heir  save  an  adopted  son.  It  was  rumored 
that  Vinemount  'nad  been  left  to  a  younuer  brother 
who  had  lived  in  a  very  modest  way  near  Toronto, 
but  who  had  finally  sou^'^ht  a  home  in  Minnesota. 
If  the  rumor  were  true,  the  younij^er  brother  never 
ai)i)eared  to  claim  liis  inlieritance.  The  ])laee  re- 
mained in  the  possession  of  the  adopted  son  and 
finally  i)assed  into  the  hands  of  one,  Blackburn 
Montijc^iiery,  a  gentleman  from  Ireland;  who,  evi- 
dently wearied  of  the  world  and  its  ways,  came  to 


^  CROWXICD     AT     ELIM. 

seek  (,uiet  and  rest  in  se(|uestert(l  Riverside  He 
remained  for  several  years  and  then  departed  as 
(linetly  as  he  had  eome.  and  Vinemount  was  ngain 
sold.  Repairs  were  j-oing  on  about  the  house  for 
two  months,  then  one  day  towards  the  last  of  Tune 
the  new  owners  came  from  Toronto. 


CA'OUA/iZ;     .4  2     ELIM. 


I 


I 


CHAPTER    IT. 

T  W.\S  evening  when  the  strangers  arrived  in 
Riverside,  and  the  many  lights  of  the  little  town 
gleaming  at  far  intervals,  seemed  to  inerease  its 


sjze. 


I,, 11 


i)eyon(l  the  village  rose  a  mist}' 
phantom  in  the  gloaming.  The  river  followed  its 
eourse  between  two  walls  of  precipitous  limestone, 
and  then  rushed  over  a  rocky  ledge  and  down  a 
narrow  gorge  with  a  thunderous  boom  that  could 
be  heard  beyond  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 

Casimir  Zamoyski  did  not  respond  to  the  eulo- 
gistic remarks  of  his  wife  and  tlaugiiter.  He  feared 
that  the  morning  sunshine  wouh^  dispel  many  illu- 
sions ;  that  with  the  morning  light  the  mountain 
would  appear  a  mere  hill,  the  town  would  diminish 
to  one-fourth  its  seeming  size;  while  the  rushing 
torrent  would  prove  a  verj-  modest  little  waterfall 
indeed. 

Yet,  when  morning  came,  and  Casimir  Zamoyski 
stood  on  the  terrace  in  the  sunshine,  he  was  fain  to 
confess  that  there  was  a  charm  in  the  rural  land- 
scape which  had  not  been  discernible  in  the  darkness 
of  the  previous  night.  As  for  Vinemount,  he  thought 
it  an  ideal  home— such  a  place  as  he  had  dreamed  of 
when  harrassed  and  perplexed  by  the  troubles  of  life. 
Yet  it  was  a  very   different  place   from   Stroganoff 


'^  CRnwxf:r)   at   i-Li.\f. 

Palace,  the  lu„„c   he   htu\   once   k  lown.       Ah    well 
Stro^.ano.r  I'alace  was  only  a  .Irea.n   belc,„^H„..  to 
tie  past.     When  he  left  it  years  a^^o.  "/„re4,  roZ 
J^..n......  hacn,een  his  only  possLion.  a^'^L^^ 

he  st.I  ha.l  httlc  t.,  show  Un  the  efforts  of  a  lifetinfe 
yet  when  hfe  shouhl  end  he  hoj.ed  to  hand  that 
sacred  her.ta,.-  down  as  he  had  received  it./.,.^.,„ 
I  he  ^a-nt  en.an-s  meditations  were  l.roken  short- 
ly by  something  tumhlinK  on  his  shoulder-a  rose 
plucked  from  the  window  casement.  He  looked  up 
and  encountere.l  the  smiHn-  face  of  his  wife 

"What  a  face,  Casimir!  And  on  tlic  Cerv  first 
monnn^.  after  onr  arrival  in  yonr  IMen.  t<,o.  Verilv 
thewhnnsnl„K.n  are  stran.ua-.  Here  have  I  heen 
c-nterta,ne.l  for  the  past  six  weeks  with  vonr  descripl 

ons  o,  th.scharmin.M.lace.  and  now  I  do  believe 
tliat  yi.ii  are  homesick." 

.  "-\;o.  I  a.n  not  hon.cick.  Miriam.  I  was  just 
"Hh.hMn.,^  n,  remin.sccnces;  thou;,h.  truiv.  the  first 
^w    days    ,n    a    strant^e   ph-ee    alwavs    are   lonclv 

^^oul.ln  t  y.,„  like  to   «(.   for   a  walk  -nul  «  ..  • 
,  •  ,  ^      i-Ji    ii  waiK  and  see  some- 

llnn'r  u{  tlK-  stUTcuidin-s  of  vonr  new  home'  " 

"Lannot,  really.  I  am  .^oin,.  to  jot  down  a  few 
•i-js  m  my  journal  before  everythin..^  becomes  hope- 
Icssly  commonplace.  I  am  a  dreadful  procrastinator 
and  ,f  do  not  write  then,  at  once  I  Lr  I  shall  n  t 
-nte  them  at  all.  Where  is  Trema  ?  i:he  will  b 
pleased  to  accompanv  \()u." 

"I  saw  her^roiu^r   towards   the  meadow.      She 

Wli"T^"',';^r,'-'''^'"^^'^'""^^"-I''^>-tion.-' 
\\cll    I  shouhl  hke  to   ,1.0   after  luncheon    Casi- 
!'in-:  but  I  can't  ^ro  „o\v." 

_^^kulamc  Zamoyski  stepped  back  from  the  rose- 

'  The  uns[>utt"d  (Ii-nity  of  ancestry. 


Ch-(>w.\/:n   AT   /././.u.  9 

cMiihowcrcd  wimluw  and  picked  up  licr  joiirri.d  It 
was  a  lar-e  volume,  IjouihI  in  Russia  k-allur.  and 
contained  the  principal  events  of  her  hte  since  her 
seventeenth  year.  The  pa^as  had  a  reniarkahlv  fresh 
a])pearauce  considerin.<r  that  they  were  nin-tcen 
years  old.  IVrhaps  it  was  because  that  she,  too. 
tclt  lonely  in  her  new  surroundiiiLTs  that  inorninjri 
tliat  her  attention  was  attracted  hv  those  incidents 
of  Ion-  a-o.  At  any  rate,  before  she  realized  what 
she  was  aI)out,  she  had  drawn  an  casv  chair  near 
the  window,  and  was  deeply  engrossed" in  her  own 
life  storv. 


I.DNDON,  \f:irch  I'nh    ls:tt\ 

Some  two  months   since,  f.ithcr  en-aged  a  new 
nnisic  teacher   for   me  — one,  Casimir   Zamovski.      I 
have  found  hitn  something  of  a   mystery.     His  name 
and  accent  are  foreign:  his  manner  speaks  of  courts 
.nnd  palaces,  yet    his   dress    is  plain,  almost  shabby 
He  talks  very  little;    of  I'.imself  he  talks  not  at  ail. 
It  IS  only  through   music    that   his   feelings   seem  to 
find  expression.      Sometimes  as  I  ])lav.  Ins  face  will 
light  u])  till    its   glowing  beauty  is  almost  dazzling 
Or,  d  the  mood  takes  him.  he  will  seat  himself  at  the 
piano  when  the  lesson  hour  is  over,  and  plav  till  the 
very   air   seems    trembling    with    the   tread"  of    war 
steeds;    then   at   his  touch    the   triumphant   strains 
wdl  give  place  to  cries  of  agony,  and  the  tremulous 
notes  breathe  out  sobs  of  anguish.     Yesterdav  I  was 

coming  along street  when  I  met  him,  and  as  it 

was  the  h(,ur  for  my  lesson  he  accompanied  me 
home.  As  we  walked  quickly  along  he  looked  at  the 
fruit  stands  piled  high  with  fresh  and  tempting  fruif 


10 


Ch'owxnn    AT   r.i.iM 


a  Ur-  vf;,'t'taliks,  llu'  cri-^p  Ittlmc,  and  ripe  toma- 
toes; at  llif  ])lc'iitiriil  suijply  .)t"  imat  in  the  hut 'her 
shops,  ami  he  said  s.ully:  "The'  pUiity  Iific-;  the 
iiiisi-fv  ovt-r  thiri'^ihc  dcsolatioii.  and  the  t'auiiiif, 
and  the  \vrvUdicdn(.s> ;  the  piiR-lu-d  faces,  and  ihc 
new  made  ;,'raves." 

"Do  yon  mean  the  Ivast  End?"  1  asked,  think- 
inji  he  meant  one  of  the  poorer  sections  of  our  ^reat 
eity.     Hnt  he  answered  (piieklv: 

"  N".  do;  I  did  not  me.in  tiiis  eitv,  or  tliis 
conniry.'and  then  heeiianj^^ed  liie  ^nlijcet,  hut  from 
the  i>athos  willi  whieh  he  s]»oke,  1  know  lie  meant 
his  native  land,  wherever  it  may  he. 

London-.  7//r)e  7.0//;.  JS37. 

Casimir  Zamoyski  has  tau,L,dit  me  torovera  vcar. 
and  he  uave  me  mv  last  lesson  to-day.  I  was  over- 
wh>inied  when  I  fonnd  that  I  shonld  n^l  see  him 
a.^.-iin.  When  he  said  "  ( M)od-l)yf,"  ;md  I  did  not 
answer,  he  came  over  to  the  piano,  and  was  deeidv 
pained  when  he  found  my  face  covered  witli  teais. 

"'Ml  Miriam  I"  he  exclaimed,  "do  \()u  care  as 
much  as  that  ?  Is  it  possihie  you  care  tor  a  nameless 
iioliody— an  adventurer  your  lather  will  sav.  Tell 
me,  is  it  so  ?  " 

In  a  voice  almost  inandihle  I  whispered,  "  Yes, 
Casimir.  it  is  so." 

"And  are  you  willing  to  sh.are  my  lot  wimtever 
it    may    hring.    wealth    or    poverty;    hapi)iness    or 


"  Yes,  Casimir." 

"Then  may  (lod  forgive   me   and    help   mel"  lie 
exclaimed,  fervent) v. 


CRowx/:/)    AT   i:i.i\f  n 

While  tlif  IwiliL^lit  (IftpciKMl  wc  talkcl  and 
plaiiiu'd,  C.-isiinir  and  I  As  iii.v  Jatlicr  was  a  vi-ry 
wcrdthy  iiiaii  and  vi-ry  proud,  it  was  doubtful  if  he 
\vould  ^Mvc  iiis  fonsciit  to  luy  inarryiu^r  .-„,  uidvuown 
foreigner;  so  wc-  dccidnl  tliat  should  he  oppose  us, 
we  would  i.Mke  mailers  into  our  own  hands  and 
marry  without  his  eonsenl.  When  we  lieard  hiin 
come  in  at  hist.  Casimir  look  niy  hand.  sayin.L,'  in  a 
voiee  hdl  of  enu)tion  : 

"I'ray  for  nie  tliat  I  may  sueeeed,  and  if  '  (h> 
not.ccuisider  well  l)elore  you  deeide  to  take  thi.->  step. 
Mu-iani,  I  love  you  f)etter  than  mv  own  life,  hut  I 
would  rather  live  without  you  than  eause  v.nir  life 
to  he  unhap])y.  And  my  afTairs  are  so  uneertain 
th.tt  I  re.illy  do  not  know  what  is    hefore   me.      If  [ 

thou-ht  you  would  live  to  re-ret  this  step.  I  would 

g(J  aw.'i  .  .  as  I  snid  before,  and  not  see  vou  again." 
"Oh.  Casimir.'"  I    said,    "do    not  "talk  of  never 

meeting  again.     I  am  willing  to  go  anywhere,  suffer 

anythmg,  so  lonLr  as  I  am  with  you." 

"Then  I  accept  your  love  as  a  God-given  trust, 

and  my  first  aiui  in  life  shall  I)e  to  care  for  vou  ancl 

make  you  ha])p\-," 

Ik-  left  me  then,  and  -rosved  tlie  liall  to  the 
library.  1  heard  him  go  in  and  close  the  door  and 
much  agitated.  I  stood  by  the  window  and  tried  t.i 
become  interested  in  what  was  going  on  in  the 
square.  It  was  a  futile  attempt.  Mv  thcmghts 
could  not  be  enticed  from  that  interview  in'  the 
hbrary,  and  its  uncertain  issue.  From  ordinarv 
conversational  tones  the  voices  grew  louder  and 
"luler,  untii.  unable  to  restrain  mv  curiositv  anv 
longer    I  firew  aside  the  heavy  portierre  and  looked 


C"A'')  UA7.7;     .1  7      IILIM . 


across  till'  li.-ill.  My  lover  was  st.imliti^  by  the  door, 
wliieli  lit'  li;il  |),',rii,illy  ojiciad.  Ills  sensitive  faee 
was  (luivenii;^  \\  ilii  ImrL  jui'le,  an  I  iiis  eyes  were 
flashiii.u  witli  n'seiitiucnt  at  tlic  in  ^nlis  h  aprd  uimn 
liiiii.  My  l.i'.IuT,  usually  so  (liu;ni:'K-,l.  w  ,in  now  livid 
with  iia--ii>n  at  llie  rmdaeity  of  a  poor  niiisie  Uaeher 
askir.>4  lo|-  his  (lau.i;Iiler's  hand.  i'htis  ihey  eon- 
Iroiiu-  1  eacii  oihcr  lor  a  inonu'nt  in  an:;vv  silence, 
tlKu  Casiniir  Inrnrd  and  kit  the  honvc.  The  <loor 
was  scrirecly  closed  when  1  w.aseaUed  lo  the  lil)rary. 
I  entered  w  ili  a  I)eatiii<;  heart.  My  father  was  still 
anj;ry,  Iml  tlie  si^Iit  of  his  daii;,diter  niollilicd  him 
soi.iewhal.  Evidently  he  could  not  liclii've  thai  his 
Minaiii  would  ^ive  "an  advcntuici"  cause  lor  such 
Ijresuiuption. 

"My  daughter, ■■  he  said,  "you  are  lie^innin^ 
yoiuij;  to  ;.;ive  uic  iroulile  in  rc'..;a,d  to  suitors.  .V 
little  incident  has  just  occiu-rcd  which  rciniiuls  ine 
that  Hiy  Miriam  is  no  lotiL,a'r  a  cidld.  Ivvidently 
that  music  teacher  is  anxious  to  ^et  a  living,'  in  au 
easier  way  than  hy  teaching." 

"  It  is  unjust  of  you,  father,  to  im])Ute  base 
motives  to  one  so  honor.able  as  Casimir  Zamovski." 

"  Is  it  possible,  Miriam,"  fatlier  exclaimed,  "  that 
you  have  condescended  to  notice  a  fortune-sechinLj 
foreij^ner  ?" 

"Pardon  me,  father,  if  I  differ  from  you;  but  I 
believe  Casimir  Zamoyski  to  be  a  cultured  j^entleman, 
and  that  he  is  too  honorable  to  marry  anvone  for 
their  money." 

"I  doubt  it.  When  you  have  had  as  much  ex- 
perience of  the  world  as  I  have,  you  will  accept  no 
one  on  appearances  onh-." 


Ch-n\y\f:n     \T    i:i_[\f_ 


i:! 


1  sli;ill  ii,,t  ivi<.nl  .•;li  the-  s«.;ii!iiii-  words  ulurli 
passed  lu'twcfii  us,  cxcc-pt  ili.it  l.-itlicr  inili',1  hv  cx- 
cl.iiiiiiiii;:  '•  1  sli.ill  not  lisuii  lo  ;iiiotlicr  word.    !•>( 


Mil 


till' d.iys  <»f  your  iiiotlKTlcss  I)a!)yIi<)od  I  Iiavc  ^v:i[\- 
fK-d  fvcry  caprice.   Imiaorcd  every  whim,  .lud   tliis  is 
my  reward,  thai  you  sel   up  your  wdl  in  opposilioM 
to  mine.       Hut    rcmemlier,   that  not  a  peinv    of  uiv 
JiHMiey  sliall   l;o  to  supi)ort  a  la/y  «'i)rei-iicr.       When 
'  I'ovcrty  coi'ies  in  at  tlic  door.  Love  llics  out  of  tlic 
wm.h.w,'  and  some  day  you  will  come  creci)in.i,'  back 
to  me  when  you    fmd   out  what  starvation  means. 
I?al  you  shall  not  marry  him.      Vou  arc  not  to  see 
him    or  communicate    with    liim    in    any    wav.      To 
t!nid<  Itiat  I  should  have    to  give  such' a  command 
to  my  only  ciiild,  who  I  tliou,L,dit  possessed  a  liLtle 
of   the   Tremainc   pride!       Hut   some     lay   you    will 
thank  me  for  oi)ening   your  eyes    in    time,  and   vou 
wdl  then  look  back    with   relief  on  what  you  have 
escaped." 


I'.VKis.  Jinn-  L'r,th,   ls:i7. 
It  is  six  days  since   I    wrote   in    my  Journal,  and 
they  have  been  days  fraught  with  de'p  importance. 
Tuesday  night   the   King   died,  and   on.   Tliursday  I 
went  witli  my  father  t(j  see  the  young  J'rinccss  pVo- 
clanned   Oueen.      As    we   drove   towards   St.  James 
Palace.  I  forgot  the  approaching  crisis  in  my  own 
hie  m  tlie  strangeness  of  the  scene.      Troops  of  the 
Lilc  Guards  took  up  their  stations  along  the  line  of 
procession,  and  grouijs  of  mounted  officers  in  glitter- 
ing uniforms    and    waving   plumes,    passed    quicklv 
along  the  route;    while   Marshalmen   of  the  Palace 
m  scarlet  coats  came  and  went  in  busy  preparation. 


14  CROUWrii      \T     F.I.IM. 

A-'  we  drew  near  to  I'ri.-iry  Court,  lather  snid  we 
must  \:xt  out  of  the  earria^^e,  as  tliere  was  iiot  room 
t'  r  it  in  the  (iua(lran,L;le  (whieh  ojteiis  on  Marl- 
hc,rou<:h  dale),  Ijeeause  of  the  erowd.  And  so,  to 
my  ureat  disgust  and  ineonvenience,  we  were  obli^a'd 
to  ali.ulit,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  fatlier  I  sliould 
have  iared  badly,  l)eing  pushed  here  and  there  by  the 
throng.  P.ut  at  last  we  were  able  to  get  inside  of 
the  court. 

Here  the  ])ress  was  even  greater,  for  it  was  from 
the  l)rdeony  overjookin.a^  the  qua(han.ule  that  tl;e 
yoiuig  sovereign  was  to  apuear.  Father  helped  me 
up  on  the  pedestal  of  a  statue,  so  tliat  I  was  raised 
al)ove  the  heads  of  the  ])eop]e;  and  presenllv,  from 
tiiis  high  vantage  point,  I  Sc.v.  ;  e  royal  carriage 
coming  slowly  along  the  line,  drawn  r)y  six  milk- 
white  horses,  and  escorted  by  scpiadrons  of  the  Life 
Guards.  I'ollowing  them  came  the  Lord  Mavor,  the 
sheriffs,  the  aldermen  and  tlie  tnace-bcarers  in  scarlet 
fur-trimmed  robes,  cocked  hats,  ruffled  shirts,  silk 
knee  breeches  and  low  buckled  shoes;  there  came, 
too,  tlieChaplain.  the  Remembrancer,  and  the  whitc- 
wiggedJMdges  of  tlu-  City  Courts. 

We  watched  '.his  imposing  sjiectacle  witii  breath- 
less interest,  and  then  every  eye  in  Friary  Court  was 
fixed  intently  on  the  balcony,  for  from  the  presence 
window  was  emerging  a  group  of  gorgeously  ar- 
rayed figures.  First  came  the  Karl  Marshal,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Garter  Kmg-of-Arnis  and  the  Heralds 
and  Pursuivants  in  tabards  wrought  with  thcRoval 
coat-of-arms,  and  gold  silk  lions  and  flowers  in  be- 
wildering profusion  ;  then  came  the  s^ate  trumjjeters 
in    tuTiics   and    caj.s    lavishly   embroidered    in    -jo!d. 


CAW  Ml  A/;/;     .17-     i:i.IM.  ^g 

Follou-in-  these,  came  the  Rou-e  I)rn-,.n,  tlie  iSIuc 
Mantle,  the  Maltravers.  and  then  sud.leiilv  there 
stood  „i_  the  mi.lst  of  all  that  splendor,  the'  voun- 
1  nneess  in  simplest  niourninLT. 

"We,  therefore,-  the  Garter  Kin.^^-<;f-Arms  read, 
the  Lords   Spiritual    and    Temporal   of  this  realm 
hcin-here  assisted  with  these  of  His  late  Majestv's 
Privy    Council,    with    Tiumhers    of   „ther    principal 
gentlemenof.juality,  with  the   Lord    Alavor,  Alder- 
men  and    Citizens   of  London,  do  now  hereliv  with 
one  voice  and  consent  of  ton-ue   and  heart,  publish 
and  proclaim  that   the   High   and    Mightv  Princess 
AlexaiKlnna  Victoria,  by  the  Grace  of  God"  Oueen  of 
the  (  nited  Km-.lom  of  Great    liritain    andlrcland 
Delender  of  the  Faith:  to  whom  we  do  acknowicd<^c 
all  iaitn  and  constant  obedience,  with  all  heartv  and 
humble  aaect;on.l;..eeching(;od,bv  whom  kino^  and 
queens  do  reign,  to  bless  the  Royal  Princess  Victoria 
with  long  and  happy  years  to  reign  over  us  " 

As  I  listene<l  to  the  impressive  words,  I  almost 
expected  something  would  happen-that  some  divine 
power  woul.l  descend  from  on  high  and  set  the  seal 
of  royalty  upon  the  young  girl.      But  nothing  hap- 
pened.     She  just   stood    there,  pale,  and  quiet,  and 
sad-a  gentle,  sweet,  young  girl  in  deepest  mournii,.. 
I  always  suppose.l  that  kings  and  queens  were  dii'-' 
ferent  from  other  people,  but  this  Princess  is  a  voung 
g>rl  just    like   me.      I    suppose  if   her   head  aches  it 
"Kike,  her  cross,  and  if  a  dear  friend   goes  awav  it 
"lakes  her  sad.      No  doubt  she  found  her  first  exer- 
cises in  music  difficult,  just  as  I  <lid.  and  was  thrilled 
^vlth  joy  when   siie   had   mastered  one  of  Chopin's 
sonatas.     What  is  the  dilTerence  between  us  '  ' 


16 


CK('V,\\i:n     AT     KLIM. 


As  1  stood  there,  busy  with  these  thoui^hts,  llie 
young  Princess  lilted  her  liead  and  fastened  her  hirj^e 
serious  eyes  upon  nie.  For  a  moment  my  heart 
seemed  to  cease  its  beating,  for  I  fancied  that  she 
couhl  discern  my  thoughts,  and  that  slie  knew  I  was 
about  to  selfishly  leave  my  father,  while  slie  was 
that  day  giving  up  all  her  free  unfettered  girlhood, 
and  was  renouncing  herself  for  all  the  days  to  come, 
to  whatever  demands  lu'r  Emjiire  might  make  upon 
her.  So  I  hung  my  head,  like  a  culprit,  till  I  re- 
membered that  father  had  a  wrong  co--  eption  of 
Casimir's  character  and  that  I  loved  ilie  young 
foreigner.  Then  I  looked  up  again,  but  that  sweet 
grave  face,  speaking  of  a  royal  self-renunciation, 
was  a  high  tribunal  before  whieli  my  conscience- 
smitten  thouglils  could  not  stand.  Again  I  decided 
that  I  would  not  do  wrong,  for  it  was  wrong.  I 
would  go  home,  and  for  all  time  give  up  Casimir 
Zamoyski. 

When  the  National  .\nthem  was  beimz  sung  for 
the  young  Queen,  fatlier  took  me  to  the  carriage  cand 
told  Jenkins  to  drive  me  home,  as  he  had  a  business 
engagement.  A^  we  drove  along  the  Mall,  Casin:ir 
stepped  out  from  the  tlirong  of  spectators.  I  ordered 
Jenkins  to  stop,  and  in  a  moment  my  lover  was 
by  my  side. 

"  Fortune  has  favored  me,"  he  said.  "  I  thought 
your  father  was  with  you." 

"  He  had  a  business  cngagment,  and  told  Jenkins 
to  take  me  home.  I  know  I  am  doing  wrong,  how- 
ever, to  take  you  u])  when  father  has  forbidden  me 
to  see  you.  but  it  is  an  act  of  charity,  is  it  not?"  I 
asked,  mischievously.     P.ut  Casimir  did  not  smile. 


CRO\V.\i:n     AT     ELIM. 


17 


llic 


"  I  tliouglit  I  wfis  to  sec  you  whenever  jjossihle," 
he  said,  "  and  complete  our  arrangements  ?  " 

"So  we  decided;  but  I  -.ave  just  realized  how 
wrong  it  is— our  going  away.  1  think  it  better 
that  we  give  up  our  plans  which,  after  all,  are  very 
selfish." 

"Very  well,"  he  answered,  wearilv. 

T  looked  at  his  utterly  hopeless  face,  and  felt 
sorry  for  him.  "vShall  you  be  very  disappointed?" 
I  asked. 

"\es,  very;  btit  think  of  your  own  happiness, 
never  mind  me." 

"Will  my  not  going  make  very  much  difference 
in  your  life?  " 

"Yes,  T  cannot  ex])ress  what  you  are  to  me— just 
my  hope,  inspiration,  cvctythit!!^ ;      What  haj)j)iness 
has  been  crowded  into  tl^c  ])ast  icw  days !      Miriam, 
why  did  you  let  me  hope?      The   disappointment  is 
more  cruel  now.      They   have  been    bu.sy  days,  too. 
I  have  arranged   everything— the  church   wliere  we 
were  to  be  married,  the   witnesses,  our  passage  to 
France,  the  quarter   in    Paris    in    which  we  were  to 
live.      I    have   even    obtain.,, |   letters  of  introtluction 
to  people  in  Paris,  tlirougli  wliom  I  sliall  be  .able  to 
get  pupils.      And  in  .all  t'.iese  arrangements,  I  have 
been  assisted  1)v  Prince  .\(l.am  C::.artorvs:.i.      He  did 
not  think  I  w.-is  doing  wrong,  for   he  knows  that  I 
love  you   devotedly,  and   that  your  father  grossly 
misjudged  me.     .\ow  every  thing 'is  ready  and^we  are 
alone.    Ju:.t  an  order  to  the  coachman,  and  we  could 
drive  to  Downing  street,  pick  up  Prince  .\dam,  and 
go  from  there  to  the  church.     Rut  it  shall  be  as  you 
sav." 


IS 


Ch''>\V.\i:!>     AT     ELIM. 


I  (lid  -Ml  reply,  iii_\-  iiiiiKJ  was  in  a  whirl.  After 
a  inomciil  he  eoiitimied  : 

■' Peihajjs  yoii  think  I  e<nil(l  not  sujiport  you, 
hut  you  need  have  no  fear  of  that.  I  have  been 
sueeesstul  as  a  teaeher  of  music,  and  lia\e  every 
prosjjeet  of  ^cttin.L;  puijils  in  Paris.  I  have,  besides, 
shown  my  sonata  to  Karl  Czerny,  who  is  now  in 
London,  and  he  thinks  it  possesses  inueh  merit, 
and  he  savs  he  will  speak  to  Cap])i,  his  ])ublisher, 
about  it,  .and  he  is  sm-e  I  shall  be  able  to  arrantre 
tor  Its  ].niblication." 

His  sayin-- that  I  tiiou,L;ht  he  could  not  su])port 
me,  touched  my  pride;  so  I  ^^lid  somewhat  brus- 
<piely:     "Casimir,    yon    sure  o    not     think    it   is 

because  I  cannot  trust  you  to  pro\  ide  tor  n:e  that  I 
have  chan^icd  my  mind.  I  understood  from  tlie  first 
that  in  becomin.^r  your  wife  I  should  lia\e  to  give  up 
many  luxuries  to  v.hich  I  have  been  ,accustomed,  but 
I  w;is  v.i'.linii  to  -ive  tlicm  up.  My  fuU'.re  has  noth- 
ing to  <I  )  with  my  present  decision.  It  is  i)ai)a  that 
I  am  thinking  about.  He  has  been  such  a  kind 
lather,  .ar.d  it  would  be  so  sellish  of  me  to  go  awav 
and  leave  him  all  alone." 

"I(piitc  understand  how  he  will  miss  vou,  but 
no  matter  whom  \ ou  marrv  he  w  ill  feel  vour  "oinf«- 
away  just  tiie  same.  However,  I  ;im  not  going  to 
urge  you  any  more;  I  am  going  to  tell  Jenkins  to 
lu'.t  me  down  ;it  tlie  ne.xt  corner." 

.\s  he  said  th.is  he  raised  his  hand  to  pull  the  bell- 
njpc.  I  w.is  frightened.  I  saw  that  he  meant  to 
leave  me  just  as  he  said,  so  I  caught  his  arm  and 
held  him,  saying  eagerly."  Please  don't  leave  me  just 
yet.     I  am  afraid  I  cannot  let  you  go  at  all."     Then, 


Alter 


CkoWXHD     AT     F.I.IM.  ,9 

after  a  moiiiciit's   (lucstioniiig  (],,ul,i.  I  added,  "Tell 
Jenkins  to  drive  to  Downin-  street;  or  perhaps  we 

had  better  ali<^l,t  at street.     After  we  tin.l  Prince 

Adam  we  can  ^a-t  a  cab  to  take  us  to  the  churcli  " 
Well,  we  went  to  the  chtirch,  and-here  we  are. 

I'AKis,  June  ir,th.  7s:i;>. 
How  dismal  everything  looked  this  m.,rnin-  and 
how  iH-i-ht  this  evenin-.      It  is  all  owin-  to  a  visit 
from  ourministeHn-angel.  Prince  Adam  Czartorvski 
Casnnu-  has  been  so  ill;  money  all  -r.ne;  j.upils  scat- 
tered.    Ho  was  unconscious  of  all  the  trials  to  which 
I  have  been  subjected  durin-  his  Ion-  illness  till  this 
^lornm,i,^  when  he  questione.l  nic  about  cvctn  thin- 
Thou,t,d,  I  tried  to  keep    tlun-s  from  him.  he'see.Pc'l 
intuitnely  to  understand   it   all.      We  were  talkin- 
when  the  hell  ran-  and  who  should  come  in  1,ut  our 
dear  Pnnce  Adam.      He   had    been    at    his   estate   in 
Ud.cia    lor    some    months,   and    di<l    n(,L    kncnv    .,f 
Lasimir's  illness  till  he  came. 

"  'Y-V'""''  ^'"'''  "'-''  I'*"""  ^^<>y."  ^vas  all  he  said  as 
iie  took  Casimir's  wasted  fm-ers  in  his-the  Pnnce 
was  never  a  demonstrative  man,  but  Casimir's  lip 
trembled  at  the  tenderness  of  the  tone.  '•  Uu^v  have 
matters  been  ?oing  with  you,  mvbov'"  the  Prince 
asked.  "        "  ' 

''  Pretty  fair,  till  I  was  taken  sick." 
"And  now  I  can  see  that  vou  need  a  Ion-  rest  " 
As  he  spoke,  the  Prince  -ave  a  swift  glance  'around 
our  p.am  httle  apartment.  Evidentlv  he  was  won- 
denng  what  would  become  of  t.  two,  Vor  he  saw  as 
plainly  as  I  that  Casimir  would  be  «na1,le  to  take 
t'l'  the  cares  of  his  ,,.rofessiou  for  some  time.      I  saw 


20 


CA''>IV'.\7;/;     AT    LLIM. 


that  he  had  a  phiii  in  his  head,  hut  never  suspected 
what  it  was  lill  he  turned   to  nie  :;;id  said: 

■'  I  eanie  aiuuiul  \)\  Luneluu,  :■  d  I  saw  your 
latlier." 

'•  I»id  vou?     How  was  he?"  I  in. luired,  anxiously. 

•'He  was  looking  rather  worn  and  worried,  but 
I  fancied  that  he  niiylit  be  reconciled  to  your  mar- 
riage if  you  would  go  to  him  and  ask  his  forgive- 
ness." 

"But  did  he  send  no  message?" 

"  No,  wdien  I  told  him  thcit  I  would  see  you  in 
Paris,  he  merely  said,  'Oh,  thev  are  living  in  I'aris, 
are  tliey?  '  Nevertheless,  if  I  were  in  your  place  I 
would  go  and  ull  him  of  your  luisl)an(rs  illness,  and 
I  know  he  would  do  something  for  you." 

"Oh,  mon  I'rince,"  I  exclaimed,  "I  could  never 
do  that — never  I  It  would  kill  me  to  crave  his  assist- 
ance. He  told  me  that  if  I  marncd  Casiniir,  I  woidd 
come  creeinng  back  to  him  s(;irie  tlay,  when  I  had 
found  out  what  starvation  meant." 

"Did  he  tell  you  that,  Miriam?" 

"Yes,  Casimir;  but  never  mind,  we  shall  not 
have  to  go  to  him.     I  have  liands  ;  I  can  work." 

Prince  Adam  was  silent  for  a  while,  ajul  then  he 
said:  "They  tell  me  Volkonski  has  been  pardoned 
by  the  Czar,  and  that  he  has  come  into  favor  with 
His  Majesty.  I  understand  it  was  Prince  Lieven 
who  efi'ected  the  reconciliation.  I  was  just  thinkins 
what  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  if  something  could  be 
done  for  you.  It  would  not  tlo  to  cx])ect  a  govern- 
ment ])osition,  but  if  you  tnight  just  be  allowed  to 
go  home  for  a  while,  what  a  fine  thing  it  woidd  be 
for  you  and  Miriam.      But  I  have  thought  of  every 


1 


I 


CRnWXi:!)      1  •/■     r.I.IM. 


21 


vour 


av.'iilril)le  ijcrson,  ,-itid  I  kii^w  el  no  one  wIkhii  w  c 
could  semi  oi!  Uiis  mission.  Any  ctTorls  wliicli  I 
iuiL;lil  ni.'ikc  woi.Ki  he  worse  ihan  useless." 

"Let  me  j^o,"  I  saiil.  e.-iueil\  .  As  I  made  this 
jji-opositiou  both  Ca^inlir  and  the  Prince  looked  at 
me  in  wonder.  "  Please  do  not  object,  mon  Prince," 
I  added,  eoaxingly,  as  he  was  silent.  "  Vour  Excel- 
lency must  know  that  there  could  he  no  one  who 
would  have  such  an  incentive  for  hrin;.;in^^  the  mis- 
sion to  a  successful  issue  as  myself.  I  should  not 
return  till  my  hushand's  ])ardon  was  an  accom- 
plished fact.  I  know  I  would  succeed.  I  should  not 
even  for  a  moment  dream  of  failure.  Please  say 
that  you  think  it  advisable  for  me  to  jjo." 

"I  do  thiid<  it  (|uite  advisa1)le;  1)ut  do  von 
realize  wdiat  you  are  undertakin<.r?  The  len<^tli  of 
the  journey,  your  youth  and,  from  the  C;:ar's  stand- 
point, the  j,n-avity  of  your  hushand's  offence?  " 

"I  am  ready  to  overcome  all  dilliculties  if  vou 
and  Casimir  will  oidy  say  that  I  may  go." 

"  .\nd  wdiat  will  become  of  me  in  your  absence, 
little  wihe!"" 

"Oh,  I  will  take  care  of  you  if  Miriam  is  reallv 
dctertnined  to  j,n),"  the  Prince  answered.  "  I  shall 
be  more  than  delii,dited  to  have  you  come  and  stay 
with  me  at  my  chateau  at  Montfermiel.  Indeed,  I 
should  be  only  too  pleascfl  to  have  you  both  live 
with  me  altogether.  Rut  a  few  weeks  at  Mont- 
fermiel is  just  the  chanue  y.)U  need.  Casimir.  You 
may  stroll  throu,<.;h  the  ])ark  to  your  heart's  content, 
and  hear  music  in  the  bird  son<>:  and  in  the  voice  ot 
the  evening  wind.  You  will  he  able  to  compose 
music  in  such  surroundings  much  better  than  when 


2-  cA'Mir.v/:/)    .17    i:i.iM. 

shut  in   tlifsc  sii.all  rooms.      And   now  in  regard   to 
Miriam's  going;  wIkmi  shall  it  he?  " 

"Since  you  liavc  so  kindly  offered  to  take  care  of 
Ciisiniir.  mon  Prince,  I  should  like  to  go  just  as  soon 
as  he  is  able  to  be  taken  to  Monttermiel,  and  the 
sooner  he  leaves  this  liot  city  the  better." 

"  Very  well,  we  will  have  him  comfortably  settled 
at  the  chateau,  and  then  I  shall  see  you  safely  off  on 
your  journey." 

Hver  since  the  Prince  went  away  this  morning, 
Casimir  has  been  talking  of  St.  Petersburg,  and 
now,  poor  l)oy,  he  is  so  excited  that  he  cannot  sleej). 

Madame  Zamoyski  was  suddenly  brought  back 
to  Riverside  by  the  ringing  of  the  lincheon  bell. 
Where  had  the  morning  gone?  And,  alas,  the  entry 
in  her  journal  was  still  to  be  written. 


si 


CROW  SHI)    AT    LLIM. 


33 


CHAPTER    III. 

TKKMA,  in  the  nicaiiliinc,  had  enjoyed  tlie  morn- 
ing,' very  niiieh.      On  ^^nu):,  into  the  meadow, 
she  was  (leh<,dited  to  find  the  ground  ahnost 
eovered  with  strawl)erry  vines,  under  whieii  the  ripe 
fruit  Kh)wed  tenijjtingly.    In  a  tenee  eorner  she  found 
a  niueh  dekipitated  luneh  basket ;  this  she  lined  with 
leaves,  and  was  soon  engaged  in  the  pleasant  task 
of  filling  it  with  ripe  herries.     Her  faee  glowed  with 
pleasure  beneath    her   broad-rimni"(l    hat.      It    was 
sueh  a  novel  ex])erieiicc  to  the  town-bred  maiden  to 
revel  in  ail  tliat  bounty  whieh  Nature  had  seattered 
about  so  lavishly.      No  prospector  coming  suddenly 
on  a"fmd,"could  have   more   i)nrc  joy    in    his  rich 
discovery  than  she  in  all  that  wealth  of  strawberries. 
lUit,  like  the  prosi)eetor,  she  was  ever   on   the  alert 
for  fresh  scenes  of  fruitfulness.      Looking  through  a 
fence  she  espied  some  especially   large   berries  in  the 
next   field,    which   she    'lo   sooner  noticed   than   she 
scrambled  over  th^-  fence  and   proceeded  to   fill  her 
basket  high  with  the  tempting  fruit.     Xot  one  more 
berry  would  her  basket  hold,  and  she  was  just  about 
to  retrace  her  steps  when  she  became  suddenly  aware 
uiat  she   was   not   alone  in  the  meadow.     She  had 
been  so  engrossed  in  her  task  that  she  did  not  see  a 
geniltman  approaching  till  he  stood  beside  her. 


Ill 


24 


Ct^•"]y.^■!:l)     \r    i:i_jyf 


"All,  with  wl„,ni   h.uv  I  the-  pk'Msiuc  .Wsliariiur 
mv  strawhm-ic-s:^  -  ,-,  pk-a.ant  voice  a.kc-,1      T.vuri 
on  lookin-  up.  fonnl  a  pair  „f  vctv  lucn  -ravc-vc-s 
t.xc-1  up<„:  I,cr.      S!,.  ncv.-r  was  so  tlmron^^hlv  star- 
1-    n,  her  I)(c.     I„  the  hr.t  plaee  she  was  alannc.l  to 
hmI    that   she    ha, I    heen    takin;.^  ,r„it   which  did  not 
'"-■l"";:  to  her.     Then   she  never  re-ncnlurc   1   having, 
seen  sneli  a  stran-e  lookin-  -entleinan      He  was   a 
•".xture  ot  heanly  and  n-^liness.      A    Hne  noble  head 
an«l  a  l.ody  hadlv  delornied.  though  he  was  tall  not 
w.thstandn,^Mn-,dehMmiiy;  a  pair  of  nio.t  heautiful 
Ki-ay  eyes  ,n  a  taee  nineh   marred  l.v  sears,     k  wonld 
seem  that    .Nature    had    intended    him    to    l,e  almost 
pericet  en,,n.L,di  for  a  Creek   -od,   hut   the    I'ates  !,ad 
decreed  ..therwi^e.       In    oue    n,on,ent  Trcma  noticed 
the  curve.l  hack,   the   scarred    check,   the  features  of 
sneh    perfect     outline    tliat    they    nd^ht    have    heen 
the  model  f..r  the  deathless  marl.le  of  a   Phidias  or 
Angelo;     and    the   eyes-hut    when    she   looked    into 
those  eyes  she  decided  that  he  w.asn't  .Ireadlul  at  ail 
"1    h^'A    .vom-    pardon,    sir,"    she   answere.l.    her 
native  di-nity  overcoming   her  confusion.      "I    was 
not   aware   that    tlrs   mearhuv  was    vonr  propertv 
My  name  is  Trcma  Z.MH>yski.       I   an,"  a  daughter  of 
tasnn.r  /amoyski,   who    has  l,ouL:ht  Vincn  ount      I 
iH.pe  von  will  pardon  my  intrusion,  and,  indee<l    vou 
inay  have  the  I,erries.>'  hohlin^:  them    towards  him 
tnnidly.      "  fliere  are  lots  over  the  fence,  onlv  thev 
are  not  so  lar<re." 

"(^h.  nonsense,  Miss  Trema!"  The  -rav  eves 
were  sparklin.^^  now.  ••  The  l,erries  are  of  no  value 
to  n,e,  I  beheve  my  housekeeper  has  more  than 
she  can    use.      So    you    are    my    new    neighbor  at 


Ck-<nV\/:n     AT     LI.IM.  25 

V.nc.n-.uni  '^  I  was  speaki.i.!^.  to  \  our  father  on  the 
occasuM.  .,1  Ins  Just  visit  her..  I  suppose  von  ha vc 
seareely  situ  vour  new  surroundings  vet  If  vou 
will  Ko  down  to  the-  hraesi.le  \  -ui-ler.  vou'  will  sec  one 
«>l  tlie  prettiest  sjkHs  hereahouts." 

•Hraeside?"'   she    said,  pcrplexedlv,    tlie    Seoteh 
word  faliint;  ijuaintly  from  her  lips. 

"Ves;  tile  hrae,  you  kno\v-iln.  hJH,  the  clitT 
Come.  I'll  siiowyou  a  s,,ot  from  whicli  von  will  .^ct 
a  (me  view  of  the  rocks." 

""!>.  thank  you!  Hut  my  I.enies  will  melt  in  the 
st-i.  Au.l  my  hands-just  h,ok  at  them.'-  holdinir 
lip  her  liitle  hands  uitl,  iluirpink  lin-ers. 

"I'll  I'Mt  your  basket  uihkr  tlielni.li  here  ami 
vou  can  hathc  your  fin.i^ers  in  thv  river,  nke  the 
naiads  used  lo  ,],,  ]„  dassie  storv." 

\Vl.vn  tlR.y  earn,,  t.,  Hk-  rivJ-r  hank  he  IkImcI  her 
to  descend, tsru^^.d  sides,  and   with  mueh  lau,lnn^ 
she  bathed    Ikt  herry-stained   .niters,  stan.lin^/ on  a 
lu.-c    hou  der.  where  the  water  ran  clear,  to  do  so 
A  tcrwards   slu-    wi,,ed     them    on    hi.    handkerchief 
wliieh  he  olili-in-ly  loaned  her. 

They  proeeeded   alon;,  the  narrow  path  between 
thcehiland  the  nver.  when,  pre.sentlv.  thev  eau.e  to 
a  spot  which  caused  Trema  to  stop  in  her  pleasant 
talk  and  look  upward  with  wonderin^^  eves.     .\s  thev 
iKul  ^^one  along  she   had  been  listening"  to  her  new 
fnend  s   interesting  conversation,  at  the   same  time 
gathering  tlowers    which  grew  in  theereviees  of  the 
rock ;  again,  examining  some  piece  of  petrifie.l  moss 
or  other  curiosity  which  her  new  neighbor  seemed  o„ 
healer    to  find  for  her.  so  she  did  not    m.tiee    that 
ihe  walls  of  limestone  were  getting  higher  and  more 


36 


CR'>\V\i:i)     AT     El.lM. 


I)ririi)it«)us  till  i1r-\  (.■.um-  lo  ;t   l.nid  in  I '  i-  livc-r.  and 
tlicii  she  lookfd  up. 

"Oh.  look!"  she  rxclaitiKMl.  "  Sc-t-  that  rock 
across  tlic  riwr?  Ii  is  a  writable  caslic-.  Sfc- tlu- 
Imllrcss,  and  liast ioii,  and  old  castle  kcrpl  Isn't  it 
grand?  And  tlurc  is  a  window,  and  it  is  a  roal 
window,  too!"'  she  added,  excitedly.  "lean  see 
away  into  it.     Isn't  the  rock  solid  all  throu-h  :■'  " 

"No."  the  gcntleni;in  answered.  ' Tliat  is  the 
entrance  to  ([uite  a  larj^'e  cave.  There  is  a  hidilen 
well  within,  wiiicli,  however,  no  one  in  tluse  davs 
has  been  able  to  find." 

"  Then  how  do  ]ieo])ie  know  a  well  is  there?  " 

"It  is  a  iradiiion  handed  down  l)y  the  Indians, 
and  seems  to  iia\e  some  trnlh  in  it.  Whether  true 
or  !iot,  the  story  is  a  very  pathetic  one.  Come,  we 
had  better  retrace  onr  steps,  .and  I  wdl  tell  vou  tlie 
story  if  yon  would  like  to  hear  it." 

"Oil,     pk'Pvc         1)     me        I     sliould     like    it  all 

tliin;^s." 

"Well,  it  is  said  that  years  a;,'o  when  the  coim- 
try  was  all  a  wilderness,  when  the  red  man  was 
monarch  of  these  forests,  t'  .at  a  party  of  Huropeans 
were  lindin--  their  w.iy  from  O^densbnrL,^  to  the  Oliio 
\  alley.  In  the  p.irty  w.as  a  yoimi,'  ^irl  about  fifteen 
years  old,  dau.^diter  of  the  owner  of  the  caravans. 
She  must  have  been  very  beautiful,  for  the  Indians 
afterward  n.n.ied  her  Fallinn^  Star.  She  had  with 
her  a  cith.ara  on  which  she  pl.aycd  in  the  warm  evcn- 
in;.;s  when  the  caravans  stopped  iny  \\\v  ni'.;ht.  Tlie 
sweet  music  antl  her  wonderful  be.-iutv  .attr.acted  the 
attention  of  Bi^r  H^.ar,  ;i  chief  of  one  of  the  Mohawk 
Nation,    who    had    been    down    on   some   warfarin--- 


(  A'"  i;-.v/.  /'    .\  r    i: i.iM. 


all 


txiK.lili..ii   t,,   the   i'alls,  ainl   !ic-  (IiHruiiiii-il   toc.-irrv 
licr  hack  to  his  tountrv. 

"Ik-  aLV(.nIiii-Iy  watch.,!  iiis  <.i.i).M-tuiiit  v,  and 
wlicii  "lu-  cvcinn-  slu-  waii.li:xd  a  sIiMpt  -lislancc 
In. Ill  the  caravans,  he  seized  hrr.  Makin-  a  si^n 
thai  he  uonld  kill  her  if  she  cried  out,  he  lil'ied  lur  in 
his  arms  aiir!  hurried  to  join  his  followers. 

"AuK.n-  tiiem  was  a  voun-  Indian  named  Lo„^r 
How.  whose  heart  wa^  toueiu-d  at  the  dre/idful  fate 
which  had  overtaken  the  whie  maiden,  and  he  deter- 
mined to  rescue  her  and  return  lier  to  her  people. 
This  was,  however,  n(,t  easily  accomplished,  as  the 
old  chief  kei.t  coiist.-int  ;,Mi.ird  over  her. 

"  They  crossed  the  river  some  distance  above  the 
Falls,  and  then  proceeded  westw.ird  sever.d  davs" 
journey  till  ihey  reached  this  river,  which  thev  17)1- 
lowe.lunlii  they  came  to  a  place  above  Riverside- 
the  chiefs  home.  In  ,all  that  distance  [...n-  15, ,w 
hiulw.  opporlunitvof  rescuin-  the  voun-  -n-j  I,„t 
he  hoped  wiien  they  reached  their  .iestination  that 
the  chat  would  be  less  watchful.  .Vnd  so  it  i)r()ved 
lor  .m  their  arriv.d  he  j.ut  Fallimr  Star  into  the 
youn-  Indi.-in-s  char-e.  with  a  threat  that  he  was  to 
look  shar])ly  after  her. 

"The  moment  of  rescue  ha.l  come.      Lon- P.ow 
only  wa.ted  till    all    was   still  about  the  tepees,  then 
he  motioned  Fallin-  Star  to  follow  him.     She  obeyed 
willm-Iy.for  she   understood    that   he  meant  to"be 
friend  her.     They  slipped  quietlv  down  to  the  river 
where  a  canoe  was  in  readiness.     Softlv  he  pushed  it 
down  the  stream  till  they  came  to  a  r-'int  below  the 
cave;   ^t-ntly    he   lifted    her   from    th.    c.inoe,  climbed 
with  her  up  that  steep  ascent,  drew  aside  the  twigs 


'.'S  C"A''>U'.\7;/'     AT     Kl.IM. 

an. 1  hows  which  concealed  the  entrance  to  the  cave, 
and  placed  her  within.  Roturninir  to  the  canoe  he 
brouj^ht  some  food  and  her  beloved  cithara.  which 
shesllll  had.  A,,ain  the  canoe  w.is  ])addled  softly 
lip  llie  stream,  and  slie  was  alone  with  the  stars,  the 
silence  and  the  night. 

"  .\,Lrain  the  stars  came  out,  and  again  there  was 
silence  aromid  the  tepees.  Long  Bow  stopped  his 
canoe  bene  itli  the  cave  entrance  and  gave  a  low 
])eculiar  crdl.  It  \ -as  answered  by  a  few  strains  of 
soft  weird  nuisie.  and  the  young  Indian  ascended 
with  another  supply  of  food.  He  explained  that 
Great  Rear  was  angry  at  her  disappearance;  he  dare 
not  start  on  the  journey  yet.  lest  the  chief  overtake 
them.  He  would  try  and  make  the  chief  believe  that 
some  wild  animal  had  carried  her  off.  S(-  every  night 
the  canoe  glided  down  the  stream,  and  strange  sweet 
airs  floated  out  over  the  water.  Then  one  evening 
Long  How  brongliL  the  glad  news  '/nat  tiie  chief  iiad 
gone  on  a  'uniting  expedition,  and  they  would  be 
able  to  start  that  ev<'ning.  But  when  he  was  climb- 
ing to  tlie  cave  for  the  last  time,  an  arrow  whizzed 
for  a  moment  tlirongli  tlu'  air  a>id  lodged  in  the  Itack 
of  the  youn.:'  lirave,  and  with  a  groan  he  fell  back- 
wards into  the  .vater. 

"  Palling  Star,  watching  at  the  cave  entrance, 
saw  the  arrow  and,  on  the  op])osite  side.  Cireat  I'e.ar 
still  holilinLT  the  bow.  and  with  a  sere.'ini  '-he  ttirned 
and  iled  into  the  cave.  Presently  she  heard  footstei)s 
behind  her;  smothering  a  cry  she  increased  her  speed, 
running  on  aiii!  on,  till  su:ldeidy  there  was  a  splash, 
a  gtirgling  cry,  and  silence.  When  the  ])nrstiers  came 
up  .a  moment  later,  the  heautifid  i'ace  of  Falling  Star 


CRowxnn    \T   i:i.iM.  2;) 

appeared  for  an  instant  on  llie  Muface  of  the  water, 
and  then  sank  out  of  si^ylit  forever. 

"And  tlie  Indians  say  that  on  summer  nij^jhts  a 
eanoe  has  been  seen  to  gHde  (h)\vn  the  river  guided 
liy  no  visil)le  hand,  and  that  strange  weird  musie 
ll(jats  from  the  eave  out  over  the  water,  niakin<>' 
mournful  sounds  among  the  liuge  old  roeks,  hke  far 
eehoes  from  the  spiritdand." 

There  was  a  suspieion  of  te.-irs  in  Trenia's  eyes 
wiicn  tlie  legend  ^vas  finished.  "  What  a  sad  story," 
she  said,  looking  baek  to  cateh  a  lasl  glimpse  of  the 
legendary  si)ot;  hut  the  rcjek  was  out  of  sight,  they 
had  turned  the  l)end  in  the  river. 

They  now  eame  to  a  flight  of  natural  steps 
f.rmed  in  the  limestone,  which  they  ascended.  When 
tliey  reaehed  the  top,  he  said  : 

"  Xow  you  can  see  the  whole  extent  of  Riverside. 
It  is  not  as  large  as  St.  IVtershurg,  nor  yet  as 
Toronto.  Still,  I  think  you  will  find  many  sincere 
friends  here,  for  they  are  a  true  jteople.  Over 
yonder  is  our  little  kirk.  I  hope  to  see  ycni  there 
to-morrow." 

"Thank  you,  I  shall  be  pleased  to  attend  the 
service.     Then  you  go  to  the  kirk  ?  " 

"  Yes."  he  answered,  smiling,  "  I  go  to  the  kirk." 
In  a  few  moments  they  had  again  reaehed  the 
meadow,  where  Trema  found  her  berries  uidiarmed, 
and  thanking  her  new  neighbor  for  the  {)]easure  he 
iiad  given  her,  she  ran  ({uicl^ly  along  the  garden  ])ath 
to  the  house.  She  -tojjped  a.  moment  in  the  kitchen 
to  give  Hannah  her  berries;  then,  when  hanging  up 
her  hat  in  the  hr  11,  she  glanced  into  the  mirror  and 
was  amazed  f  >  see  a  large  ber.-y-staiu  on  her  face, 


J 


30 


CA'"  WM.I)     A  1      lil.lM . 


left  tlicre  wIk'ii  she  li.'id  liruslicd  liuck  Ikt  hair  with 
licr juice-covered  fin<^ers, 

"  Trema  Zanioyski  I "  she  exclaimed,  "what  a 
fright  \-ou  are!  And  then  you  do  not  even  know  the 
name  of  your  interesting  neighbor.      IIow  stu])id  !  " 

But  strangely  enough  she  never  asked  her  father 
for  the  information. 


CROWNED    AT    ELIM. 


31 


CHAPTER     IV. 

THE  Sa1)hath  which  folhjwed  was  a  mcmorahlo 
one  for  Trema.  Indeed,  it  might  be  said  that 
it  was  for  her  parents  also.  CasiniirZamovski 
had  at  last  found  a  place  where  he  might  lav  down 
the  burdens  of  life.  He  was  very  well  pleased  with 
Vinemount  and  he  liked,  too,  the  little  town  so  close 
at  hand.  A  sense  of  tranquility  seemed  to  pervade 
the  place,  and  he  thought  that  he  could  ask  nothing 
better  than  that  he  might  live  and  die  in  that  rural 

S]H)t. 

They  went  to  the  kirk  by  the  river  path,  because 
Trema  elected  to  go  that  way.      She  was  ca])tivated 
by  the  weird  grandeur  of  those  frowning  old  rocks. 
She  could  scarcely  divest  her  mind  of  the  idea  that 
they  had  all  been  planned  and   .uly  drawn  up  bv  an 
architect;  that  the  forests  of  wide-spreading  l.«'>eches 
and  maples  had  been  planted  by  a  landscape  artist; 
that  the  river  had  its  source  somewhere  m  a  huge 
reservoir  and  came  rushing  along  between  the  rocks 
at  the  will  of  some  autocrat.      This  idea  came  from 
tlie  artificial  nature  of  St.  Petersl)iirg,  where  Trema 
had    si)ent  her  early  years.      There  sh.'   had    driven 
.-ibout  a  good  deal  with  her  grandmother,  who  had 
taken  pains  to  instruct  her  in  all  they  saw.      Thus 
she  came  to  know  that  Peter  the  Great  had  founded 


I.. 


I   \\ 


\  .' 


32 


CKov.'xr.n    AT   ni.iM. 


the  city  on  a  (les<  l)arrcn  marsh;  thai  tlic  canals, 

lakes,  groves  ai-  .  meadows  which  tdlh.wcd  eacli 
other  in  dreamy  succession  were  rdl  artilici;il.  So 
that  natural  scenery  imaided  l)y  the  work  of  man 
was  a  source  of  continual  wonder  to  her. 

M  idanie  Zamoyski  was  not  so  interested.  She 
frowned  when  her  dress — a  heautit'ul  s':il< — brushed 
aj^ainst  a  damp  moss-covered  rock.  She  was  dis- 
gusted when  she  fotuid  her  fme  shoes  were  being 
soiletlby  the  damp  earth,  and  iniormed  Trema  that 
it  she  likei]  niuddy  rna-Is  and  dirly  rocks  she  might 
go  that  way  alone,  l)ut  for  herself  she  j)refi-rred  go- 
ing by  tlie  high-road.  Trema  \  \,s  sorry  and  apolo- 
getic ;  her  father  siid  nothing,  being  engrossed  in 
the  skeleton  of  a  fish  which  he  had  fouiid.  Tiiev 
reached  the  kirk,  however,  witliont  mishaj).  It  was 
the  only  cluirch  in  the  little  town,  and  prob.ably  tliat 
was  the  reason  why  it  was  such  a  fme  building.  Be 
that  ar  it  may,  it  was  noted  far  and  wide  for  the 
beauty  of  its  .-irchitectiire  and  the  elegance  of  its 
interior  adornments. 

When  inside,  Trema  cast  a  furtive  glance  around 
for  Iier  new  acfpiaintance.  She  was  (pi-te  anxious 
to  see  him.  or  at  least  she  was  .anxious  that  he 
should  see  her  witli  her  face  cleansed  of  lierrx-stains. 
But,  alas,  he  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  She  dared 
not  look  again,  for  tliat  glimpse  had  shown  her  that 
her  ]iarents  and  herself  were  the  cynosure  of  all  eyes. 
It  was  not  often  arrivals  came  t(j  Riverside  of  the 
prominence  of  the  Zamoyskis,  and  their  "heathenish 
name"  had  attracted  consideralile  attention.  River- 
side had  not  (piite  made  up  its  mind  whether  to 
exi^ect  these  foreigners   to   appear  in   sheepskin   or 


J^ 


ck()]vxi:n   AT   i:i.iM.  33 

deerskin  clothing.      I.na-ine   its   s,.ri)rise.  therefore, 
when    Casimir  Zamoyski   acconii)anied   l>v   his  wife 
and   daughter,    walked    down    the   aisle  of  the  kirk 
clad    ni   the   most    elegant    costumes   that   the  citv 
could    produce.       It   is   safe    to    sav    that    CasimiV 
Zamoyski   never  before   in    all    his   life   attracted  so 
much  attention.    Not  when  he  bore  his  part  so  noblv 
at  Warsaw;  not  when  he  fou.ght  at  Modlin  by  the 
side  of  his   dear   Prince;    not   even    when    he  stood 
with  his  aristocratic   mother  in  the  presence  of  the 
Czar,  had  he  been  the  target  for  so   manv  curious 
eyes.       Trema    was    vjuite    overshadowed     bv    the 
majesty  of  her  father  and  the  statelv  digirtv  of  her 
mother.      She  opened  a  I'salter,  and  tried  toconcen- 
trate  her  attention  on  the  Psalms.      She  was  grow- 
ing impatient   for   the    service   to   begin,    whcMi   the 
vestry   door   oi)ened    and    there    he   was- her   new 
neighbor-in  black   gown    and    white  bands.      How 
well  he  looked  up  there  in  the  i)uli)it !     His  dcfc^rmity 
was  no   longer  conspicuous,  and   there  was   abou't 
him  an  indescribable  air  of  majestv,  greatness  and 
strength,  combined  with  a  child-like  svmpathv.  that 
drew  all  sorrowing  hearts  to  him  for  comfort    and 
helj). 

Trema  could  not  tell  wherein  the  difference  l.iy 
between  her  acquaintance  of  vesterdav  and  this 
minister  in  the  pulpit,  but  she  felt  dominated  by  a 
presence  majestic,  impressive  and  powerful,  and  the 
state  of  her  mind  was  very  humble  indeed.  Yester- 
day she  had  taken  his  berries;  like  a  cliild  she  had 
gone  with  him  for  a  walk  with  a  ))erry-stained  face. 
To-day  his  very  ^  rcsence  overpowered  her  In  his 
robes  of  sacred  office  he  seemed  as  unapproachable 


I 


< 


iii 


If  4 


3-t 


CU(i]V.\i:ii     AT     lll.lM. 


a>  llic  statue  ot'St.  I'ctcr  ,Lriianlin_;  Liic  catraiKX'  to 
tlu'  liol;,  i>l'  linlic'S  ill  that  lar-DtV  elaircli  iii  St.  I'ctLTS- 
burg.  This,  then,  was  tiic  Kcv.  Davi.l  McGhislian, 
of  whom  she 'lad  la-arrl  her  father  s])fak  and  uJiom 
RivcTsitlc  adored. 

The  sileiiee  whieh  i'lilhiwed  t!ie  (i;)eiiiiii4^  exereises 
was  I)ri)kou  hy  the  voiee  nf  the  minister  re.adiii;^^  his 
text:  "I'll  1  the  (hiv  break  and  tlie  shailows  llec 
away,  turn  my  beloved,  and  lie  th^ai  like  a  roe  or  a 
vouu'' liart  upon  tlie  mountains  ol  I'.etiier."  WiiaL 
a  voice  he  had! — dee]),  and  (|uiet.  and  imi)re>sive. 
The  very  tones  seemed  to  wrap  the  hearers  in  a 
mantle  (>t  solemnity,  and  to  lift  their  hearts  aw^iy 
from  the  common  noisencss  of  the  world — awtiy  to 
a  si)iriliud  re;4:on  of  holy  SabbaLh  peace. 

Trenia  never  foruot  that  service.  WiicLlier  it  was 
the  theme  of  t!ic  sermon  or  the  simijle  dl;,Miity  of  the 
wt>rshi;),  or  the  novelty  of  her  surrot'.'iUlint;s,  which 
impressed  licr  slie  was  not  (p;ite  clear,  but  it  proved 
one  of  the  unforu'cttable  services  of  her  life.  "  bntil 
the  diay  break  ar.d  the  shadows  lice  awav,"  a^Tiiii 
that  marvellous  voice  sounded  diwn  the  aisles  of  the 
kirk.  As  the  ptojjle  listened,  that  story  of  the  Bride 
and  the  Land*  was  no  Ioniser  a  vi-ionary  p;ira1)le  of 
a  far  off  century  ;  it  wa.s  i\  jticlure  painted  there  be- 
fore them.  They  saw  the  elect,  the  chosen  one.  cast 
abroad  a  foundling  infant ;  they  saw  His  tendcrcom- 
])assion  as  He  took  her  to  His  heart  and  nourished 
all  her  helpless  years;  His  sacrificial  love  when,  with 
His  blood.  He  r.'insomeil  her  from  death,  and  His 
thoughtful  care  when  He  left  her  for  .awhile  to  pre- 
l)are  her  home  above.  They  saw  how  the  way  was 
long  and  lonely  and  dreary  for  her.     They  heard  her 


C  A'"ir.\7:/)     AT     F.I.IM. 


(i\V 


-\VL'(.l    (.TV 


'urn,  my  I)cl()vc(],"  for  sli 


l.ie  c  Mnl..rt   of   His    presence    with    luT.     Tliev 
nesscd  a!l  ihc  terrors  of  tliat  nii/ht-ti 


e  wished 


wit- 


mie  ]onrnev,  the 


wild    heasts   that    were    readv    to    d 


evour    her,    the 


snares  that  were  laid  to  entrap  her.  tlic  teniptati 
that  l)eset  her.     They  watclu  ,1  her  as  sh 


(MIS 


into  the  shadows    of  tl 


into  tlic  ver\ 


e  went  (h)wn 
le  woods  and  tlie  hills— ave 


valle\-  of  the  shadow- 


juy!  they  saw  the   day  break  and  the  shad 
away  forever,  ant!  the  Bride- 
fur  whom  He  had  waited  so  1 


anil    then,  o 


( )WS 


H 


ee 


room  come  to  claim  hci 


on; 


Tl 


len,  when   the  iteojjle    were  cau<.,rht    up  in  that 


mood  of  exaltation,    tl 


e   nnnister   passed    from  tl 


tone  of  tender  pathos  in  which  he  had  1 


le 


to   (Mie   of  stern  d 


enunci 


)een  speaking 


ition,  and    the  ])eople  saw 


themselves  as  they  were,  un-rateful,  i)roud.  idol 


shippers  of  worldly  possess! 


wor- 


the   Kin^   of  kiii<rs,  and   had    1 


ns.     They  had  spurned 


)urned  incense  to  the 


'•queen   of  heaven";    they  had  for-<,tten    the    Lamb 
that  was  slain,  and  had  j)aid  home 


o 


f  the 


:igc  to  the  jirince 


e  power  of  the  air;  their  Lord  and  ALaster  was 
away  and  they  cared  not ;  they  had  raised  a  I 
of  worldly  interests  in  their  hearts,  over  which  He 

mmunion    with    Him    was 


1   narner 


could   not  come;    all    co 
stopped,  y.  they  were  at  their 


ease. 


Tl 


len,  when    the   minister 


were  touched  and  th 
ant  tears,  he 


that 


put  out  his  hands  as  if  he 


saw  that  their  heart; 


re[)ent- 


eir   eyes    were   dim  with 


would  /.gather 


errinj,'  congrej^^ation  to  his  heart,  and 


no 


ly  rachance  covered  his  face  like  a  veil 


tenderly 
"Oh. 


a  weft  of 
as  he  said 


in 


your  AL'ister?      How  1 


y  people!     How  long  will 


you   grieve 


ong  will  you  denv  voursel 


ves 


I 


ii^L 


36 


CRrnVXED     AT    ELIM. 


Hk-  proliciioii  of  those-  Aliiii_i,'hty  ;irii!s^  Return  to 
Him  wiili  repentance;  then,  shult  tlioti  not  he  afraid 
for  the  terror  by  nij^dit,  nor  for  the  arrow  thnt  flieth 
by  (lay.  I'mler  sueli  sate  j^i  (hin.-L'  you  may  j,m) 
cheerfully  on  your  way,  sin^in;j^  your  son^^s  in  tlie 
night.  What  thou^^h  the  clouds  overcast  I  What 
though  you  enter  some  black  and  shadowy  valley, 
you  will  be  safe:  till  the  mists  tlee  away  and  the  new 
day  dawn  for  you  and  me  in  Imnianuers  land." 


CKOWXEl)     AT     ELIM. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE  Roosians  were  at  the  Kirk  yesterdav." 
said  Malcolm  McKiuiKJii,  as  he  waited  for 
Donald  Bell  to  do  up  n  parcel  of  ;,rr,>ceries. 
"  Its  a  jid-ment.  I'm  thinkin',  tae  hae  sich  folk  come 
aman<r  us  wi'  their  forei«,Mi  manners  to  teuii)t  oor 
liairts  frae  Sion.  Did  ye  notice  them  kneel  thro'  the 
prayer?  I'm  sair  astonished  the  meenister  diihia 
admonish  them  for  sich  heathenish  practices." 

"It  wassa-oot  sermon  that  he  i)rcached  them, 
and  they  would  I-c  listenin-,- ferv  attentively."  Donald 
answered.     "It   may   l)e   he  will  drop  some  seeds  of 
truth  which  will  yet  bear  goot  fruit  in  their  hearts. 
I  would  he  thinking  as  he  i)reached  of  what  iss  said 
of  the  Son  of  Otiias  :    '  How  wass  he  honored  in  the 
midst   of  his   people  in   his  coming  out  of  the  sanc- 
tuary ?     He  wass  as  the  morning  star  in  tlie  midst  of 
a  cloud,  and  as  the  moon  at  the  full ;  as  the  sun  shin- 
nig   upon  the  temple   of  the  Most  High,  and  as  the 
rambow  giving  light  in  the  bright  clouds  ;  and  as  the 
flower  of  n)ses  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  as  lilies  bv 
the  rivers  of  waters,  and  as  the  frankincense  tree  in 
summer;  as  fire  and  incense  in  the  censer;  as  a  fair 
olive  tree  budding  forth  fruit,  and  as  a  cvpress  which 
groweth  up  to  the  clouds.     When  he  put  on  the  robe 
of  honour,  and   was  clothed   with  the  perfection  of 


'  'I 

I      I    !( 

I. 


i  III 


38 


crow'm:])  at  llim. 


Klory.  when    Iif  went   tip   i,.  tlic  lioly  altar,  lie  made 
the  <^'arimiii  oj"  holiness  lionourablc.'" 

"  That  is  a  hue  passaj^c,  Doiiahl  Ik-11,"  said  Mat- 
thew Carnith.  who  was  waitin;,^  to  ^et  his  mail. 
"As  for  they  new  t'owk,  'am  feared  tliey  are  up  tae 
nae  -^niid.  Wha  kens  Init  they  niiclil  hae  eonie  tae 
spread  Anarchy  or  N'ihilism  amauL^  u-." 

"Anarchy  orNiliilisni?  Von  peojde  in  tliis  new 
contree,  what  yon  know  of  Anarchy  or  Nihilism. eh?" 

At  this  abrui)t  (juestion  Matthew  tnriied  and 
met  the  ^lowing  face  of  Jean  liaptiste,  lately  come 
from  Montreal.  Bnt  1)efore  he  ha('  time  in  replv, 
Jean  continued : 

"Vou  come  liere.  you    <;et   soin    land  for  nutting 
almost,  you  got  no  moimaie.      What  matter?      Vou 
lake   your   axe,   you    fell    some    trees,  you  Iniihl  log 
shanty;  clear  small  piece  land  ;  plant  jjotatocs  ;  sow 
wheat;    raise  ])eegs,  and   sare  you   arc.      Then  you 
brecng  your  wife  an'  she  help  you   mooch.      '.Mong 
oder  tmgs  ver'  necessaire  is  sugar.      Ver'  well,  ui  the 
spring  you  tap  the  trees,  the  sap  run  good,  you  boil 
It  down— have  tree,  four  lumdred  jjounds  hue  maple 
sugar.     Then  you    want  some  new  clothes  to  wear, 
so  you  shear   the   slue])   an'  your  wife   she  spin  the 
wool;    then  with  weaver's  loom  an'  shuttle  she  turn 
it  into  thick  warm  cloth.     In  the  fa"  you  cut  <lown 
some  trees,  you  bring  your  sleigh  an'  o.xen.  an'  soon 
the   woodyard   is   filled;    an'  you  have  nu)och  con- 
tentment, an'  sing  with  joy  as  the  yellow  chips  fly 
up^vard.     Then  Chris'mas  time  you  take  slaughtered 
beef  cattle,  an'  turkeys,  an'  gci^sc,  an'  ducks  to  mar- 
ket, an'  you  bring  home  lots   of  tings~a  new  dress 
for  your  wife,  maybe,  an'  toys  to  put  in  the  stocking 


J 


CRowxr-i)   AT   i:!.f,\r  3,, 

of  your  Icvllr  boy.  An'  as  you  drive  l..  wards  luum- 
the  stars  Klittcr,  an'  the  wind  slu-  l»l.,w,  an'  far  otf 
in  the  woodsy....  hc-.-.r  lU-  ]u>^^\  .,1  il„.  w..lt  pc-riians 
Hut  what  you  care?  Way  thn.i.uh  il„  trees  you 
see  the  h-ht  of  your  honic.  an' soon  vour  wife  she 
hear  ju,.i,de  of  the  bells,  a.i'  come  to  t'lie  door  with 
your  leetle  hoy  ,n  hw  ..nns.  mrhe  lau-hs  an' crows 
hkehewas  w.ld  w.il,  j-.y.  Then  in  ilu- house  vour 
arm  chair  is  d.-awn  to  the  f.re.  the  kettle  sink's',  an' 
hot  cakes  smoke  on  the  tal)le. 

"  But  in  I-ranee  there  is  a  (inVerenee.  Some  -^rand 
Seigneur  he  own  the  lan.l,  an"  the  poor  man  pavs  bi-r 
ifiit.  Then  some  time  the  en.ps  not  -^row,  an'  the 
hailift  of  the -rand  Seigneur  hecomean'sav  the  poor 
H.an  must  pay  or  he  will  sell  his  goods.  S.)  one  dav 
c-veryt.ng  is  taken  from  him.  an'  his  wife  she  pine  nn' 
(he.  .-ur  he  go  to  the  great  eeety  an'  tink  to  lind 
woi-k  ;    but  there  is  no  work. 

"  Then,  by  an'  by,  Ik-  go  to  live  (h)wn  in  the  back 
alley.  X„  sunshine  there,  no  pure  air;  but  rotten 
garbage  all  a,-oun<l.  An'  the  smell !  Mnn  Die,  how 
.t  rises  to  heaven  !  The  pauper  an'  the  felon'  thev 
lierd  together  with  no  inch  of  ground  their  own  •  but 
liy  an'  by  they  will  get  six  feet  of  earth  in  Potter's 
field,  perhaps. 

"  So  one  night,  when  the  j.oor  man  is  very  much 
<ksolee,  a  gentleman  he  cme  along,  an'  he  sees  the 
man  in  deei)  sorrow,  an'  he  speak  so  kind  like  he  was 
a  h-iend.  an'  tell  him  there  are  some  people  who  will 
help  him  il  he  will  go  with  him.  So  the  poor  man  he 
1  )llow  the  stranger  along  dark  streets  an'  back 
alleys,  an'  through  hidden  pa!^sagewavs.  a.i'  across 
paved  courts,  an'  up  some  flights  of  stairs.     Then  he 


i        'I 


i    i 


ijil 


Ij 

I) 


to 


CRowsni)   .\T  i:i.iM 


t)I)cn  a  <l<.()r.  an' l.cli.,l<!:  inanv  li;,'lits  .-..r  a  vast 
asscmhkr  ( )„  tlic  stage  he  sees  a  man  tlin.wiuK  his 
.'•nns  ah..m.  like  he  was  ,na.l,  an'  tdlin-  the  people 
with  H.mmIs  <,f  w.nls  that  he  is  the  poor  .nan's 
Inend.  An'  the  poor  unfortunate  hstens  with  niueh 
cmpns.t^nwnt,  an'  afterwards  it  is  all  over  with 
liun— he  is  an  Anarehist. 

"Hut    it    does  n(.t  end  there.     Oh.  no       He  is  a 
member  J.ut  a   leelle  wl^'c  when  he  linds   one.  two 
tree  nien.hers  have  niueh  domination,  an'  are  niore- 
what  youeall  it  ?-despoti,p,e  than   the.^rand  Sei-m- 
cur.  or  the  Czar  of  Russia.     ( )ne  da v  thev  uive  him  a 
death  eard.      They   are    goin.u'    f.   assa;sh.ate    Son 
Altesse  IV.nee-an'  the  new  member  is  to  do  the  kill- 
ing.    It  IS  no    use  his  saying  'No.'      His  jif^.  is  of  „o 
more  value  to  them  than  one  leetle  mouse.     If  he  run 
away  they  will  find  him.  though  he  hide  in  the  great 
ceety    or  live  in  a  dark  cave,     u"  go  to   sonie  island 
far  otl   m  the  sea.  they  will  find  him  an'  kill  him  if 
he  (hsr)bcv. 

"He  goes  home,  an'  this  deed    he   has    to   do   it 
haunts  Inm  every  moment.      In  his  sleep  he  sees  his 
vietim-he  has  stabbed  him.     IMood  ,m  liis  hands '- 
I">n.an   blood  I      ()),,  n,,.   h,,rn,r  of  it.'      His  vietim 
moves;    he  is   not   .lead.     He  eannot  leave  hi,n   like 
that.      One   more   thrust-he  is  still  now.      But  his 
eyes,  won  Iheu,  how  they  stare !     The  assassinator 
,  trembles-the   hair  of  his   head  rises  up-he  tries  to 
get  away,  but   his  feet   are  ehained.     He  n.akes  one 
violent  effort-he  awakes.      It  is  a  dream-he  is  not 
a  murderer.     No.  and  he   will  l,e  one  never.     He  will 
go  aboard  a   vnisscnu.      He   will  sail  for  Amcrique 
For  a  tmie  he  will  be  free. 


i 


Ckowxf.-f)    \r   i:/,f_^f 


41 


I 


'  I  l..-.t,  ,i,y  (nc.uls.  is  Annrchv- that  is  Xihilisn, 

I'(.  v<,„    scv    whv  it  xvn„l,l  not  nro-rcss  in  this  new 

contrc.'       An-    ,l,i.   str.-.n^a^r.    la-   h,-.s   n.-t   c„n>c   to 

sprcn.J  An.-,rd,v      I  think  not.     I'.„,  ho  h,-,vr  .Irca.lA.I 

piK-ncKH-.  n.nyiK-.  .-.n'..,  h.  hi,!,  .-.w.-.v.  .-.m'  I,vc  .rnict 

l.cTc  nt  K.vcTsi.ic.      I5nl  some  d.-.y.  ccrLuincrncn, .  the 

Anarchists  they  tin.l  hi,n.  sure.      Or  it  ,n.-,v  he  th,-,t 

this  stran^'cT  is  Michel  n.-ikiuiin,  liimsclf." 

"  Michel  Bakunin  iss  a  new  n.-ntie  t,.  the  ,H„,.!e  ..f 
this  place." 

-NVver  he.-inl    of.Miehcl    I'.aknniii  '      P.;rh/c,t  '" 
cxclaune.l  jeaa.      Thea  h.u-erin.^^  his  voice  an<l  uh-,nc- 
nv^  over  h,s  shouhk-r  f,,  see  th-,t  ,„,  f.-.-sh  arrival  ha.l 
come  in   to  r.verhear  hini.  he  con  tinned  :     •■\Vhveven 
tlH-  win.Is  an-  the  waves  seen,  to  know  him  aii'  help 
Inn,  every  time  he  is  in  trouble.      He  is  a  Ku..ian- 
<M.e    of    ih.  I.rnu  rnnnrlc.       When    he  .crow  up  he  tro 
to   Pol,,n,l,   where    he    was    .-,    nvlitnirc.      He  see  tlio 
P-,.le  were  made    to   sutler  nnuh  oppression   under 
eonstantme  an'  other  officers  verv  despoti.,i,e       A,,' 
l>c  say,    'The   poor   peoj.le    they   have  a   verv    hard 
tune;    me  d.m't  mneh  like  this  heesiness  '      Then  he 
,U'.  to   I.;.ns  an-  to  Germany,  an'  all  the  time,  everv- 
where,  he  preach  Anarchy,  an' have  mneh  oe.ple  to 
foUow    him.     Then    he   huht  in  Kevohition/rv    War 
■n.     ,s   cademned    to   die;    l,„t    he  ;,et  free,    an"  the 
Knssians  they  ^^et  him  an'  put  him  in  prison      He  -et 
rec  n.ain,  an' they  very  an.i^^ry;    an' look,  an'  hfok 
for  him  everywhere.      Then  they  find  him  a^^ain   an' 
send  him  to  Siberia,  where  he  live  till  this  vear       \n' 
now  I  .^et  a  letter  from  Paris,  from  won  pcrc,  an'  he 
tell  me  this  Miehel  Bakunin  he  escape  from  Siberia 
an  come  with  wife  an' child  to  Ameriquc       \n'  this 


u  ill 


i 


42 


CRD  .    .\i:i)     A  T     F.I.IM. 


stran;,ar— who  knows?     Tic-  is,  itcrhrips,  lu^t  Casimir 
Zaiuoyski  at  all,  but  the  Aiiaivlii-t  so  cclchrc. 


An' 


111  'W  I  must  be  ijoiu' 


Al 


ouMcnr 


if 


H  \()U 


liavc   no   letter  for   me.      Hut   I    wai-n 


watch  on  this  stranger.     Sonictl 
him." 


ou — keej)   a 


liiiL^  too  4uiet  a])out 


said 


He  iss  a  sniartyoung  man,  that  Jean  Haptiste," 
I)oi;a!(l,  when  the  door  had  elo,-ed  (mi  the  lo- 
<|uacious  young  I'renehnian,  "  bu  t  I  would  l.e  think- 
ing  th.at    he    knows    a    ferv    great    deal    about    tlie 


inarclii^ts 


fc 


r  isell,  tor   all  he  is   so  vounur — not  vet 


twenty.      And  he  will   be  -/ett 


iiu 


lerv  man 


letters 


from   ^ari^ 


anu 


But 


ler\-  many  from  M<Mitreal,  likewise. 


lie  i-s   a    nice  young  man,  whatever,  and  has  a 


most  jile-iMiig  eonnteiianee." 

Xotwilh-tanling  the  dark  rumors  whieh  tloated 
about,    however,  the   Zamovski 


f; 


s  soon    <irew    to    1 


)e 


ivoiUes    witii  the    villagers.     Perhai)s  the  mysterv 


surrounding    them    on]\-   lent    an 


.',1. 


eliarm,  but 


certain  it  i-  that  C; 


Z 


isiiiur  /.anioyski  w.-.s  the  hrst  to 


win  their  regard.     His  eultured  mind. 


;r.aeelul 


HI' 


aiK 


1  kindly   disposition  impressed  all  who 


>ear- 
saw 


li'.m  ;  while  the  dee])  interest  whielihe  at  once  evinced 
in  all  that  pertaineii  to  the  afTairs  of  tl 
at  once  j^laced  him  higli  in  llie  esteem  of  tl 


e  eoiiinninitv 


X 


le  \illa'_rers. 


or  was  his  jiopularity  limited  to  t! 


e  elder  ])ortion 


of  Riverside  residents.      When  it   was  rumored  that 
he  had   engaged  in  actual  battle,  every  child  in  the 

worship.      Ill 


pi; 


e  at  onee  set  him  on  high  for  hen 


fact  his  populaiitv  threatened  to  riv:d  e 


ven  that  of 


Charlie    Kinnear,    the    village    sehoolma>ter.       Ant 
to  })e  a  favorite  schoolmaster  in  Kiverside  meant  to 
be  exalted  as  a  denn-god  •    to  be   the  polar   star  in 


CAWMI-.V/;/;      17-     ELIM.  43 

the  Village  society;  the-  hcau  ideal  of  the  country 
maidens,  and  the  particuK-.r  ol.ject  of  envv  of  the 
rustic  swa.ns.  ( )f  course,  in  these  matters;  Charlie 
Kinnear.  being  a  young  man.  would  still  bear  the 
palm  of  victory. 

Xor  were  the  other  members  of  the   familv  for- 
gotten      P,efore  two   months   had  jmssed.  Madame 
/amoyskt  had  receive.!  calls  fn.rn  mnuv  of  the  ladies 
<>.    the    town,    while   Trema    had    been    invite<l    to 
spend   the  afternoon"   at  all    the  farms  near    at 
hand      Some  of  these  invitation.^  she  had  accepted 
and  through  them  had  caught  glimpses  of  farm  lifj 
which  were  new  an.l   interesting.      It  must  be  con- 
fessed   however,  that  at  first  these  country  bovs  and 
>,Mr  s   looked   upon    her   with    wonder,  not   unmixed 
with  awe. 

It  ;x  as  twelve-year-old  Jamie  Cairns,  of  Willow 
Bank  farm,  who  thought  he  ha.l  solve.l  th-  mvstery 
respecting  tins  foreign  product  of  a  heathenish'climJ 
Trema  had  iirst   surj)rised   him  with  her  kiu.wled.^e 
of  trees,   plants   and  rocks,  which   was   strange,  he 
thought,  for  one  who  had  never  liefore  lived    in    the 
country;  and  Jamie  did  not  know  such  things  could 
be    learned    from    books.       When   she   talked  to  his 
grown-up  brother.  Stewart,  of  the  college  in  Toronto 
(which  he  h<,p,.d    soon    to   enter),  of  the  professors 
and  lecturers;   of  the  new  university  then  building 
c.f  Its  fine  situation,  secluded  as  it  was  in  a  genero,:; 
exposure   of  restful   nature,  of  its  Norman  architec- 
ture, Its   s.iuare   tower,  its  cupolas,  its   turrets,  its 
entire   med.xya;   aspect-Jamie  listened   in   amazed 
silence.       An.l    when    at    tea-time   she  entered    into 
a  spirited    .bscus>„,n    with    his    fa'he-   alxmt   some 


■  ■  ! 

I  '  ; 


Htj 


ill, 


44 


CRi'UVXEI)     AT     EI.IM. 


political  (|UL'stiiiii,  wliic'i  was  iiiiiiiulli^iblc  lo  liiin, 
lie  decided  she  was  difli.'reiit  tVoiii  most  <;irls.  But 
when  (^ut  in  the  ^^arden  after  tea.  Treiiia  entertained 
thcni  with  descriptions  of  ti.inus  she  had  seen  in 
St.  Petersburj;,  the  li.L;ht  dawned  ui>on  Jamie — he 
wondered  he  had  not  t!ion,L;ht  of  it  l)efore— she  w-s 
a  fairy  jjrincess.  lM)r  who  hnt  a  fairy  ,)ri:icess  had 
ever  seen  priests  whose  robes  ;4littered  with  ^<'ld 
and  jewels,  ])alaces  witi  Hoors  of  iidaid  marble, 
walls  ol  onyx  and  alabaster  and  ceiIin,<4S  frescoed  in 
beautiful  desi^j^ns?  Who,  indeed  ?  It  was  just  like 
a  story  from  the  Arabian  XiL^hts. 

"And  if  that  is  not  })roof  enou,L,di."  Jamie  trium- 
phantly whispered  to  Elsie,  "just  look  at  her  dress!" 
Trema's  frocks  were  always  made  of  beautiful  soft 
materials  never  l)efore  seen  in  Riverside.  The  ar,^u- 
ment  was  convinciti,<j^  and  little  FJsic  became  a  readv 
convert.  But  when  they  spoke  of  tiicir  di  coverv  to 
Beth,  tlieir  ardor  uas  considerably  (l.mipciie  1 ;  un- 
fortunately Ibr  Jamie's  tb.eory,  Beth  was  seventeen, 
and  no  lonjj^er  cared  for  tales  of  lairy  encliantnicnt. 

"Don't  you  think  she  mi^ht,  just  by  a  word, 
cause  a  wh  )le  retinue  of  servants  to  a])pe;ir  like 
Paribanon  did  ?"  asked  Jamie,  when  he  lic-'d  finished 
telling  Beth  the  tale  of  wonder. 

"Tremaa  fairy!"  exclaimed  Beth.  "The  idea! 
Vou  had  better  keeit  your  wild  notions  to  yourself, 
or  I'll  lell  mother  that  you  have  been  reading  the 
Arabian  Xiglus,  which  you  know  ipiite  well  she  has 
forbidden  you  to  oi)en." 

"  Then  how  doe  i  Trema  know  so  much?  "  asked 
Jamie,  defiantly.  "  Besides,  all  her  ways  are  dilTcrent 
from    yours."       Trema's    graceful    mcn-ements    and 


CRO]V.\i:n     AT     h-LIM.  .;,- 

composed,  unruffled  di^niity  had  perplexed  Jamie- 
yet,  lookui-  at  her  as  a  fairv  prineess,  it  was  all 
right,  for  did  not  the  story  say  of  I'aribanon,  that 
'  her  air  was  -raeeful  and  majestic,  yet  sweetly  easv 
and  cncouraLdnir  "  '         " 

"Evidently,"  answered  I'.elh,  laughing,  '-Trema 
Zamoyskiwas  not  I,orn  and  l.roughtnpat  Willow 
Bank  larm." 

Jamie  went  away  (piite  crestfallen,  folio w<-f]  ],y 
Llsie  who  was  sorry  to  see  liim  disappointed  S!ie 
did  not  know  anything  about  Parihanon,  hut  she 
thought  Trema  Zamoyski  verv  beautiful  and  null.- 
lovely  enough  to  be  a  fairy  princess.  Jamie  was 
some.diat  compensated  f,r  his  disappointment  bv 
hndmg  that  Trema,  notwitlistanding  her  princess- 
hke  ways,  was  eager  to  join  in  anv  fun  which  tliev 
might  suggest;  whether  it  was  riding  from  the  field 
on  a  load  of  grain,  swinging  in  the  orchanl.  or  j)lav- 
ing  some  game  in  the  evening  twilight. 

So  these  first  months   at   Riverside  passed  very 
pleasantly.      One  day  in  Sei)tember,  Beth  and  Elsie 
Cairns  came  to  visit  at  \'inemount,  ])ringing  a  little 
cousin,  Ruth  Chudleigii,  wit  h  them.      .\s  it  happened 
that  two  other  young  friends  also  came  to  see  Trema 
that  day,  they  made  quite   a   little  partv  and  went 
out  on  the  lawn  to  play  tennis.     But  Elsie  and  Ruth 
did  not  know  how  to  play  tennis,  and  coa.xed  them 
to  play  instead,  "  King  .\rthur  was  King  William's 
Son."  and  though  the  older  girls  thought  it  childish 
tojom  in  such  a  game,  yet  to  jjjease  Ruth  and  I-lsie 
they  consented.      One  game   followed   another,  ami 
they  were  just  in  the  midst  of  "  Open  the  Gates  as 
High  as   the  Sky,"  when   a   hat   which   IVema  v,-,.]! 


1 

i 

!'• 

;.      I 

r 

{ 

i 

i,  j  i 


liji 


46 


CR()\VXi:n      \T    ELIM. 


knew  a  J )  pea  Id  1  above    the   hed/^e.      It 
C.lashan  and  lie  was  wateliinL^  tl 


\\ 


as  Mr.  Mc- 


lem. 


Trenia  was  annoyed.      TlionL,di  tl 
lied^^c  between    the  grounds    ot' the    M 


lawns  of  Vineniount, 


lere  was  b-jt  a 
inse  and  the 


with  the  minist 


yet  she  had  never  :\<i-\\n  talked 


oiT  the  feel 


er.     She  had  never  been  able  to  shake 


her  at  that  first  se 


in;j^of  awe  with  whieh  he  had 


rviee  in  the  kirk.     She  h;id  al 


impressed 


idea  that  he  thoui^ht    her  childish—. 
Innniliation  to  a  yoinii^r  l.-uh-  win 


so  an 

m    iniendnrable 

)  was  si.xteen  fcair 


months  a-o.      I-,,r  the^e  re.tsons  she  h.i.l  sednlousl  . 
ivoided  meetin-  him,  not  withstanding  that  he  anil 


her  father  w 


ere  .great  friends,  and  that  sh 


e  saw 


nin 


every  day  walking  , 
times  assistini:  the 


bout  among  his  flowers,  .^onie- 


ardener  \ 


•.-ith  1 


ns  work,  tlunmli 


more  often  walking  gravely    to   and    fro    his  I 


elasj)e 


i\  1 


lands 


)ehni<l 


!:;n   and    his    head  bent  slightlv  i 


or- 


notieed  that 
ir.orTiing  hours. 


ward,  as  if  in  deep  thought.      She  had 

he  was  generally  in  his  garden  in  the 

so  that  while  playing  these    'ames  she  had  felt  quite 

secure  from  observation.     But  now-when  she  stoo<l 

with   her   arms   raised    above    her    head,    with    her 


hands  clasping  I'.eth's  to  f( 


I 


>ain  s   arms   cnciic 


mi 


Chudleigh  just  passing  under  the  bri.l 


orm  an  arch,  with  Hilda 
ler   waist,    and    little   Ruth 


caught— the   famili.ir  fice   had 


;e  read\'  to  be 


hedge,  to  brii 


ajjpeared  above  tl 


le 


fi 


carmine  to  Tivma's  check 


re  to  her  eyes.    She  resented  his  1 


s,  and  tin 


certainly  he  harl  a  right  t 


s  being  there,  thouvh 


o  walk  where  he  liked 


in 


IS  own  groun<ls.      However,  she  would  not  break 


tip  the  game  because  she  had  1 
go  on  with  it  to  the  end 


)t 


en  seen  ;    she  would 


The 


young   minister,  all  unconscious  of  h 


avintr 


Ch'(>w.\i:n    AT    i:/.i.\r.  ^_~ 

raised    angry    thoughts     i„     I,is     neighbor's     mind 
stopjK'd  hy  the  hedge  and  watched  the  game  to  its 
eonelusion.      Ik-  had  becMi  attraete.l  bv  the  familiar 
rhymes     whieh    lie    had    so    often    repeated    in    his 
childish  days.      And  not  only  did  thev  recall  familiar 
scenes   of  childhood,    bnt    they    had    gained   a   new 
significance  now   that    in    his    laLcr   years   he   knew 
their  origin.      He  had  found,  for  instance,  that  the 
game.  '■  King  Arthur  was  King  William's  Son."  had 
originated  from  an  historical  romance  of  the  twelfth 
century;     that    the    game     they    had    just    plaved, 
"Crreen  gravel,  green  gr.ivel,  the  grass  is  so  green.'' 
was  a  corruption  of  an  old  ballad  ;  that  'TncTe  John 
IS  very  sick,  what  shall   we  send    him."   had  come 
down   from    medi.-cval   days,     when    an    imprisoned 
knight  was  saved  from  death  by  the  d.iughter  of  the 
king    who    kept    him    in    coiifinement.       The  game 
which  was  now  in  j.rogress  had  been  plaved  by  the 
boys  and  girls  on  the  streets  of  Rome  in  tlie  days  of 
Virgil.      It   had    a   spiritual  significance   and  was  a 
representation  of  the  strife  between   the  gocnl  and 
evil  powers  of  the  soul.     As  the  young  man  watched 
the  game,  he  thought  of  how  people  of  all  ages  had 
been  conscious  of  that  struggle  of  good  and  evil  in 
the  heart.      Zoroaster,  the  heathen  philosopher,  and 
Paul,   the  inspired   apostle,   had    taught    tlie    same 
truth.     For  Zoroaster,  having  discovered  a  dualism 
in   the   moral   world   as  well  as  in  material  nature 
believed  Ahriman  to  be  waging  pcr])etual  war  with 
Ormuzd  for  ascendency  in  the  soul;  and  Paul    look- 
ing into  his   own    heart,  wrote,  "I  find,  therefore    a 
law  in  mymem])ers,  that    when    I    would    do  good, 
evil  is  present  with  me." 


a     ' 

:    H 

1    1 

'.  1 

,  1 

*■  i 

1 

r  1  ! 
liJi 

i| 
If 


Nil 


48 


Ch'<)]v\f:[i    .1  /•   i:i.iM, 


And  now  the  last  child  had  chosen  between  a 
gold  an<,'el  and  something'  else,  and  the  tn,:,' of  war 
(representinjj:  the  conflict)  began.  Trema's  side  was 
the  weaker,  l)ut  Ity  a  dexterous  movement  she  freed 
herself,  and,  leaving  the  others  in  a  heap  on  the 
grass,  went  over  to  speak  to  the  minister.  She  was 
siill  angry,  and  it  was  a  rare  thing  for  Trema  to  be 
vexed  ;  but  she  was  very  sensitive.  She  hated  of  all 
things  to  be  seen  in  a  position  which  would  appear 
to  others  ridiculous,  and  she  was  suspicious  that  he 
had  been  listening  all  tlie  time;  that  he  had  watched 
them  as  they  went  round  tlie  mulberry  bush,  and 
that  he  had  listened  as  they  sang,  "What  has  this 
poor  robber  done  ?  My  fair  lady,  ()."  So  she  stood 
before  him  now,  no  longer  timid  or  afiaid,  but  with 
her  eyes  glowing,  her  fair  head  loftily  erect. 

"Xo  doul)t  yon  think  it  very  foolish  for  girls  as 
large  as  Beth  and  I  to  play  these  games,  but  I  tln'nk 
we  have  a  precedent  in  our  foolishness— they  were 
played  by  Queen  Elizabeth's  maids-of-honor." 

"Oh,  you  entirely  mistake,"  he  answered  hur- 
riedly, the  look  of  perplexity  with  which  he  had 
regarded  the  hot  red  roses  of  her  chce;  -•  passing 
away  at  her  words.  "You  must  not  think  that  I 
watched  you  from  mere  amusement  or  curiosity.  It 
was  for  (piite  another  reason.  Those  games——"  he 
broke  off  suddenly,  a  gentleman  was  driving  up  to 
the  Manse;  when  he  saw  David  McCilashan  he 
alighted.  The  minister,  with  a  smile  and  a  bow  to 
his  discomfited  young  friend,  said,  "Til  explain  some 
other  time,"  and  turned  to  greet  his  visitor. 

Treriia  went  back  to  her  friends  somewhat  molli- 
fied  but   not  convinced.      She  took   the  girls  to  an 


CR<>\V.\f:n     AT     HLIM,  ^,j 

arl)()r  above  wliich  the  -rapes  lum-  ripe  and  luseiotis, 
and  after  i)artaking  of  some  of  the  fruit  Elsie  pro- 
posed tliat  tiiey  have  a  game  of  forfeits.  The  game 
progressed  favorably  till  the  forfeits  were  to  be  re- 
deemed. Beth  was  kneeling  on  the  floor  of  the 
arbor,  while  Hilda  stood  holding  a  laee  handkerchief 
above  her  head.  When  the  usual  formula  had  been 
rei)eated  and  the  (juestion  came,  "What  has  she  to 
do  .^"  it  would  seem  that  Beth  knew  to  whom  the 
forfeit  belonged,  for  she  smiled  roguishly  as  she  said  : 
"She  has  to  go  down  to  the  cave' and  seek  for 
the  hidden  well." 

"Oh,  what  a   penaltv  to   redeem  a  forfeit'"  ex 
claimed  Hil.la.     "  The  handkercliief  is  vours,  Trema, 
but  I  think    Beth   does    not  expect  vou  to  obev  her 
command." 

"I  will  go  if  the  others  will  go  with  me,"  Trema 
answered,  without  hesitation. 

"  Do  you  reallv  mean  it  ?  " 

"Certainly."  ' 

"  But  we  were  never  in  the  cave  in  our  lives." 

"Then  it  would  be  a  novelty  to  go,  would  it 
not?" 

Though  Trema  spoke  so  carelesslv,  she  was 
wondering  if  it  were  wise  to  go.  She  did  not  know 
what  the  interior  of  the  cave  was  like,  and  if  the 
girls  were  to  get  hurt  she  woidd  be  held  responsible 
But  ever  since  Mr.  McGlashan  had  told  her  the  story 
of  Falling  Star,  she  had  had  a  great  desire  lo  see  the 
cave.  Finally,  tlie  girls  said  they  would  go.  Trema 
ran  to  the  house  for  candles  and  matches,  and  thev 
set  off. 

They  reached  the  spot  below  the  cave  safelv,  })ut 


I 


•  I 


in 


\\\ 


1 

: 

b 

L 

■  . 

li 


50  cR'>]y.\r:i>    at    r:[.i.\r. 

\v(iii(lfrc'(l  how  thi'v  would  he  ahk'  to  climl)  up  tlic 
lirivijiilous  rock  to  i!k'  cntraiK-c.  Troiiia,  liowt-vcr, 
was  not  to  he  ilauiiud.  She  started  u[)  s'owlv, 
l)lacin:4'  licr  llet  in  saiall  fissures  of  the  elilf  and 
siipporiiiii^-  herself  I>y  I  vviLTS  and  l)U-hes  wliieh  j^rew 
ill  the  ereviee-;,  till  at  letiLTth  she  reached  a  led^ire 
Iroiii  which  she  helped  the  others  to  ascend.  I-^-oin 
that  ])oiiit  they  had  liitle  ditFiciilty  in  reacliinLT  t-!'*-' 
entrance,  where  they  found  themselves  in  a  small 
s(|uarc  u^rotto  which  had  a  passa-e  leadin:^  from  it, 
seeiiini;ily  endle-s.  There  they  timidly  paused,  for 
l)ehiiid  them  they  had  left  the  l>!iie  slcv  and  the 
Scptemher  sunshine,  while  around  tiiem  was  t!ie 
gloom  of  death  and  the  stillness  of  the  sepulciire. 
Each  dreaded  takin:j^  tlu-  first  stcj)  into  that  silent, 
darlv  luniul.  S  <  t'l'/y  .^tood  siill  .-ni  1  lool<ed  at  one 
another  till  Trcnii,  \vh  >  had  been  li_:.;htinu;;  her 
candle  and  now  n  )ticed  their  timidity  teasiiiglv 
said  : 

"  I  helieve  you  are  afraid  to  cjo  ;  I  will  go  hack  if 
\'ou  choose." 

"Oh,  no!"  they  all  exclaimed.  "If  you  will  lead 
the  way,  we  will  follow." 

Holding  the  lighted  candle  above  lier  head, 
Trenia  started  down  the  gloomv  avenue,  siir'-in*"- 
"Nellie  (H-cy,"  that  sweet  song  of  the  South.  The 
rocky  passage  had  a  peculiar  carrying  ])ower.  The 
sweet  strains  of  the  pathetic  little  song  went  on,  and 
on,  and  on.  till  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  gnomes,  and 
elves,  and  fairies  of  that  mystic  underworld  had 
caught  up  the  strain  and  were  carrying  it  into  some 
region  far  away.  Then  even  Treur;  i^rew  timid  and 
the  song  died  upon    her   lips,  for   all    those  echoing 


Ch-(>\vxi:f)    AT    r.i.iM.  r,| 

c-;i(kiiccs  scciiici!  to  l)c  liiiiiiaii  voiocs.  Was  il  tlie 
evil.)  ..filer  own  son-  that  slic  licar.l,  .>r  was  it  a 
cithcra  touclic  1  liy  spirit  fin-ers?  Was  it  the  li^'lit 
of  licr  candle  jMisIiinL;  l)ack  the  darkness  wliicli 
caused  these  flittin-  shadows,  or  were  -h.)stlv 
fi^Mires  rclreatin-  into  -|.>oni  at  the  approach  u\ 
hninan  footsiejis?  The  ^i'-'s  st.x.d  still  ;  their  faces 
I)ale.l;  tliey  would  advance  no  further,  and  it  is 
likely  they  would  have  I)eat  a  liastv  retreat  had 
not  Ruth  Chudleigh  surprised  them"  l,y  suddenly 
exclaiming'': 

"See:    here   is    another    passa-c,"    and    lookin- 
into  a  small  opening,  which  the  larger -iris  had  not 
noticed,    they    saw    that    tlic-e    was   indeed    a   large 
passage  similar  to  the  one  in  which  they  then  were. 
"Rutliie,  Ruthie,  come  back.'"  called  Trema,  as 
she  saw  the  little  girl  with  her  lighted  candle  in 'her 
hand,  dart  through  the  .)peiiing.       F^ut    Ruthie  was 
not  to  l)e  .leterred.     Wild  with  excitement  at  having 
di.-.covered  a  cave  lierself  she  sped  on,  not  caring  in 
the  least    where   she    went;    and  though  Trema  "fol- 
lowed   with    all   haste,  she   had    not   overtaken    the 
child    when    Ruthie    suddenly   fell    forward    ami    her 
candle  was  extinguished.      Trema  saw  with  liorr.)r 
that  t!ie  spot  into  wliicli    Ruthie   had    fallen  was  a 
still,  black  potd.     With    a  cry  of  agonv  she   darted 
forward  and  reached  the  edge  in  time'to  grasj)  the 
child  before  she  sank  again.     She  lifted  the  little  one 
HI  her  arms  an.l  carried  her  back  to  the  other  pas- 
sage, where  the  girls  were  waiting,  and    who    now 
looked  on  with  blanched  faces  at  the  dripping,  still 
form  in  Trema 's  arms;  for  Ruthie  had  swooned  from 
Inght,  though  she  was  not  otherwise  hurt.     It  was 


Ml 


h 


'  i 

i 


d*i 


52  CR(>\V\i:n      \  T     I'LIM. 

a  very  silent  iiroecssion  ihal  lotr.-iced  its  steps  to  the 
cave  entrance,  lor  they  must  ;,a't  Rnthie  hack  to 
\'ineni()init  with  all  h.iste.  And,  as  Trenia  said  rue- 
fully, their  ohject  had  heen  aecoinplished— t hev  had 
found  the  well  which  had  i)eeii  lo->i  ("or  one  Hundred 
years;  thout^^h  Kuthie,  j.oor  child,  had  p.iid  dearlv 
for  tlie  discoverv. 

How  Treina  j^^ot  her  burden  safely  down  the  clifT. 
she  could  never  afterA'ards  luiderstnnd  She  onlv 
renieml)ered  that  her  mind  was  liljed  with  an<^Miish 
that  she  had  allowed  her  euriosity  to  lead  her  into 
such  an  escapade.  That  evenin,^'  as  Trenia  looked  at 
Ruthie  sleei);ii,-  so  jjeacefully  hel  ween  warm  hlankets, 
s!ie  sliuddered  when  slie  tli()i'L;ht  how  horrihlv  near 
death  the  little  one  h;id  Irvu  in  the  moment  that  she 
knelt  l.y  tlie  pool  in  that  still,  dark  cavern.  One 
moment  later  and  Ruthie  would  have  entered  ui)on 
the  mysteriou'^,  unknown  life.  iMlled  w;th  these 
serious  thou-ht^,  Trema  wondered  how  she  could 
have  displayed  temi}er  at  the  trivial  incident  in  the 
afternooii,  and  she  smiled  now  when  she  recalled 
David  \lc(ilashan's  look  of  wonder  at  her  ].etulance. 
It  was  only  too  evident  that  he  did  think  her  a  mere 
child,  whose  ,y:reatest  pL-asure  consisted  in  going 
round  the  niulberrv  bush. 


ck'owm:!)   at   i:i.im. 


S3 


chapti:k  VI. 

Tlin  warm  days  of  Scptenihcr  were  past— days 
in  which  it  had  l)ecn  a  joy  to  wander  in  the 
woods  beliind  the  nieruiows  of  \'ine!n()unt, 
and  gather  the  luscious  lhinil.lcl)crrics  which  grew  in 
the  tan.'ijled  undergrowtli.  And  now  ()cto])er,  too, 
had  passed— had  just  gone  out  in  a  hlaze  of  golden 
glory,  and  November  had  come  in  wilh  a  disi)inting 
ehiliiness. 

Casimir  Zamoyski  had  been  on  business  to 
Brantford.  and  a  cold  autumn  rain  was  falling  as  he 
drove  home.  He  felt  the  cold  keenly  and  ft^ared  a 
return  of  his  distressing  cough.  vSoon,  however, 
Vinemount  came  into  view  and  he  looked  forward 
with  pleasure  to  an  evening  in  his  warm  cosy 
li])rary.  When  he  had  reached  home  and  changed 
his  damp  clothing,  he  went  to  look  for  Trema.  He 
found  her  in  the  library,  curled  up  in  the  window- 
seat  and  strainir.  J  her  eyes  over  the  sad  fate  of  the 
"Fair  Maid  of  Perth." 

"My  daughter,"  he  said,  "will  you  just  run 
over  to  the  Manse  and  ask  Mr.  McGlashan  for  his 
'Geschichte  der  Griechischen  Literatur'?  " 

"'And  beard  the  lion  in  his  den,  the  Douglas  in 
his  hall,'"  quoted  Trema.  "Father,  what  makes 
you  read  books  with   such  unpronounceable  titles  ? 


ij 


64 


(.■A'OM'.V/.-/)     AT     i:i.IM 


It's  raining,  too,  ht-t  I  will  ;.'(.•  i  my  i  loak  ;  won't  \<.ii 
l)lensf  write  .I..wn  tlu-  naiiic.  lor  !  will  not  uinkr- 
takc  to  c.'irrv  it  in  inv  luad  ra-ros^  tlii' lawn  to  the 
Manse  :"• 

" '(Ksthichtc  (kr  C.riccliisclu  II  Litrratur.'  Wliv, 
eliiM.  11  is  very  simple,  and  you  i)idnonnee  I'olisli 
w.M-ds,  wiiieh  aie  more  diir.eiilt,  (|iiite  lluentlv." 

"  I'olisli:  Why.  tiiat  is  the  laii-;na.!4e  of  tlie 
I'atherland  and  not  to  he  eompared  for  a  moment 
witii  the  uiieouth  (-erman.  Well,  never  mind.  Til 
try  to  make  him  nndcrstand ." 

Trema,  who  was  usually  so  self  possessed,  found 
h.ersclf;4rowiii-  nervous    wlien    the   trim  little  maid 
ushered  her  in'   >  the  '  ...leious.  stately  iil.rarv.       This 
room    was    Daviil    .Me(  ;ias!irnrs    speeial    pride.       All 
tlim;.'s  whieh  he  trerisund   were  to  ht-  found   within 
us  walls.     II, >  laloved  hooks  were   there— row  upon 
row  of  them,  reaehin-  almost  to  theeeilin<:;  faees  of 
dear  ones  looked    down    from    the    walls;   treasured 
mementces  of  eolle^re  days  were  in   the  eahinets.  and 
(piaint  [)ieccs  of  furniture  were  strewn  about,  telling 
i;i!ently  of  vani-hed  days  in  the  dear  vSeottish  homtt 
P.ut  a  strai;.':vr  would  not  eare  for  the  intrinsie  value 
«>f  tiK-e  thin-s.      Waat  impi-ssed  Trem.a  was,  that 
1)1  its  ])eculiar  appointments  it  seemed  to  partake  of 
the  nat  ure  of  its  owner.      She  noticed  this  before  she 
saw  the  minister  rising  out   of  the  shadows  at  the 
fnrthereud  of  the   room.      In   one  swift  glance  she 
ha.l  noticed  the  ceiling  of  polished  oak,  the  rows  of 
tempting  oetavoes,    the  rich   cabinets,    the  graceful 
statuary,  and,  in  strange  contrast,  the  rude  uncouth 
hreplaee,  almost    flaunting   its   rustic  solidiiv  amid 
this   polished    elegance.      The  fire-place  was  built  of 


CA'oirv/./j     17'    r.i.iM. 


T).) 


I 


rou^'h  SI. .lie:  a  slal.  of  sicnf  I.tiiioI  iIk-  iiianicl; 
ohloii-  sioiics  siipporti'.l  llu'  Ma/iii^r  1,,^^,.,  ,,,-  ,,.,].  _.,,,,  j 
niapk-;  while  aroiiii.l  i-  wciv  -n.npc'd  tlic  (|iianit 
tables  and  I'hairs.  In  close  proxiinitv  was  a  sto-ie 
stairway  Iea.lin--whitlier '  Di.i  tli"is  o.l.j  eonier 
conjure  ii].  memories  of  I.y-one  days?  The  hri-ht 
eyes  noted  eaeli(L>tail  and  eame  I.aek  to  the  faci^of 
the  minister,  who  was  extendin-  his  hand  in  ;^M-eel- 
111-^.  with  no  trace  of  iiKpiisitive  wonder  in  iluir 
l.kie  <lepths. 

"  I-alher  wishes  to  know  if  you  will  ..tid  him  a 
work  on  Creeian  littratnre?  It  is  hy  Sehoell,  I 
tlnidi,"  Tremasaid,  (indin,-:  her  toii^Mie  as  he  led  lier 
to  a  chair  hy  the  fire. 

"  With  i)leasure.  I  have  two  woiks  hy  ihe  same 
author,  hut  '  (".eschiehte  der  CriechischeiiLiteratur  ' 
was  the  one  yoin-  father  w,-is  speakiii  ;  of.  Would 
you  like  to  take  a  look  over  my  l)ooks?  Tiiose 
slielves  are  wliolly  devoted  to  tlieological  works, 
perhaps  you  wf)uld  not  hnd  them  interesting;  next 
to  them  are  hio-jjraphy  and  history.  Close  to  the 
hre-j)lace  are  my  jioets,  but  licre,  near  the  window, 
are  l)0()ks  to  interest  y(ni.  Those  al)ove  are  (^reeki 
Italian,  and  early  English  romance,  and  lower  down,' 
modern  fiction." 

•'  Modern  fiction  !  1  thought  ministers  were  not 
supposed  to  read  anything  l)ut  tlieologv." 

"  Hid  you  ?"  looking  gravely  serious.  "  I  wonder 
if  my  eongiegation  think  so,  too,  for  cluiracters  fr(Mii 
fiction  son:etimes  suggest  illustrations  for  my  ser- 
mons. History  deals  more  with  people  in  the  mass, 
even  its  individuals  wc  see  only  in  a  i)ublic  light.  It 
takes  no  account  of  the  inward  mind  of  mar  ;  of  the 


Jl 


1^ 


^  P 


56 


CRowxnn   AT    ni.iM. 


vital  struggles  of  a  soul  in  its  sorrows  and  dis- 
appointments, its  asi)iralions  and  weaknesses,  its 
errors  and  saerifiees.  And  rlien,  as  some  one  has 
said,  history  does  not  give  us  the  suceess  of  things 
according  to  merit,  while  fiction  does  ;  it  presents  us 
with  the  fates  and  foi  tunes  of  persons  rewa-ded  or 
punished  acvorchng  to  merit." 

The  minister,  while  speaking,  had  turned  and 
was  looking  absently  out  of  the  window;  he  seemed 
to  be  speaking  more  to  himself  than  to  his  visitor, 
lie  stopped  aljruptly.  Were  not  such  thoughts  be- 
yond the  comprehension  of  a  young  girl  ?  Turning 
tovv-ards  her,  he  found  that  she  was  looking  up  at 
him  with  a  face  of  interested  attention. 

"Yes,  '  she  answered  shyly.  "  I'iction  certainly 
has  advantages  not  only  over  (Jthtr  forms  of  writing, 
but  over  the  other  fine  arts,  for  architecture  must 
have  5:pace  to  express  \  s  thought ;  sculpture  has  but 
one  moment  of  time  in  which  to  tell  its  story  ;  paint- 
ing is  able  to  tell  more  through  perspective,  while 
music  can  only  suggest;  but  the  author  is  able  to 
produce  the  illusion  that  we  are  actually  livnig  in  the 
scenes  which  he  (lescr;i)es.  \Ve  do  not  even  study  his 
characters  Irom  a  distance-  we  live  with  them,  weep 
and  rejoice  with  them.  Hut  do  you  not  think  that 
the  poet  has  more  interest  in  thei)rogressof  the  soul; 
that  he  gives  the  human  spirit  more  complete  ex- 
pression because  his  view  is  from  a  higher  plane?  A 
I)oet  living  in  the  Golden  Age  would  be  able  to  write 
only    a   romance;     ease  does   not   make   jjoetry.      I 

mean "  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face;    "  I  mean' " 

stopping   in    utter    cv>nfusion    at    the    rapt    wonder 
written   there.      "  I'm   afraid  I  can't  explain  what  I 


I 


■i  i/ 


CRn\v\i:i)    AT    ELIM.  57 

iiicaii,"  she  added  faltcriiigly.     Wliat  would  he  think 
o\  licr  airin-  her  theories  to  him  who  was  so  learned? 
''Yes,  I  tliink  I  understand  you,"  he  said  gentlv; 
t -.rning  his  eyes   from    that   blushing   downeast  faee 
to  the  window,  where  he  was  ap])arently  engrossed 
in    the  elouds   of  the    west,    whieh  were' breaking  a 
little   an.d    allowing   a   1)it   of  sun    to  peer  tiirough. 
"You   mean    that    if  there   were   no   sorrow   in   the 
world,  we   might   liave   a   pastoral    of  the  stvle   of 
Daphnis  and  Chloe,  but  would  have  no  ])oetry ;   for 
the  i)oet,  while  hr-  lives  among  the  eoinmonplaces  of 
earth  and    while  his   soul   is   all   a-quiver  with  life's 
agonies,  is  yet  able  to  rise  through  imagination  into 
the  rarified  air  of  the  ideal.      To  the  eommonplaces 
whieh  he  deseril)es,  he  always    adds   that    whieh   he 
alone  sees;   that   somcthi^  ^>  is   his   ideal   auii  forms 
the  standard   for   weaker  mortals   to   hallow.      Yet 
the.sc  visions  of  the  idea!  whieh    tlie   poet   seeks   and 
finds  for  us,  are  but  the  glimmerings  of  divine  reveal- 
ings  yet   to   be   made.      I  think  we  should   always 
remend)er  that." 

As  he  finished  speaking,  the  sky  gre\v  brighter, 
the  elouds  were  banks  of  erimson  ;  the  llaming 
scarlet  glinted  on  the  windows  of  the  far-off  cot'- 
tages;  it  massed  itself  against  the  roekv  cliffs  and 
dripping  cedars,  and  touched  the  faces  of  tiu-  two 
spectators  at  the  window,  giving  them  a  beautv 
almost  divine.  Then  sudd-rly  the  sun  disappeared 
behind  the  woorled  hill,  tl'  crimson  shades  changed 
to  orange,  tlien  faded  to  laintest  amber  and  i)aled 
again  till  only  gray  was  left. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  Trema  said  softly ;  the  power 
of  that  gorgeous  sunset  was  still  upon  them. 


^:^ 


ill 


ill 

i 


f'«  Ch'OWXnn     AT     EI.JM. 

"  Mus»  von  j^H)?"  he  asked  rcmctfullv,  tiirninnr 
from  the  window.  "I  (h)  not  have  \isitors  vcrv 
ottcn,  and  1  liave  enj-xed  j.our  slioiL  call  more  than 
1  can  say." 

The  minister  sho\'.cd  his  visitor  to  the  door  and 
then  retnrncd  to  his  hhrarv,  thou-Ii  lie  did  not  again 
take  np  the  work  in  which  he  had  been  intcrrtii)ted, 
bnt  sat  before  the  lii-e,  resting  his  elbows  on  the 
.';rms  ot  his  el:airand  eross-ng  liis hands  in  nn wonted 
idleness.  The  room  was  rapiihv  growing  dark,  save 
where  tlie  firelight  flickered  and  fell  on  the  ol)jects 
around.  Vet  when  the  maid  lirom^ht  the  Hirlits  h^ 
tohl  her  that  he  did  not  rc(iuire  liglits  just  then,  and 
Jeanie  went  to  the  housekeeper,  saying  that  the 
minister  could  not  be  well,  for  he  sat  in  the  dark 
before  the  hre,  hand-idle. 

Cer'.ainly,  Trema  Zamoyski's  visit  had  strangely 
disquieted  the  young  nian.  He  could  not  rid  himself 
of  the  idea  that  he  had  known  her  before— that  in 
some  yesterday  of  life  they  had  been  friends  and 
were  now  only  renewing  that  friendshij).  It  must 
Ik'  that  she  remimled  him  of  Bess,  the  sister  he  had 
lost.  When  he  thought  of  Bess,  old  friends  came 
trooping  l)ack  and  half- forgotten  scenes  api)eared  as 
if  limned  !n  the  blaze  before  him.  There  is  his  simj)le 
Scottish  nome,  where  lu.xury  was  never  known ; 
there,  too,  is  his  father,  who  with  infinite  j)atience 
taught  his  l)()y  from  his  limited  store  of  knowledge; 
and  there  is  Bess— his  confidante.  It  was  onlv  to 
Bess  that  he  had  told  of  his  longing  to  be  an  artist; 
that  was  the  goal  at  which  he  aimed  ;  thrit  thought 
was  the  center  of  all  his  dreams.  What  air-caslles 
they  had  built    together— he   and    Bess!      Wlien    the 


c/<<iw.\i:i)    AT   i:i.i.\[. 


'Ireaui  \v;t.s  no  lon^'cr  a  (Iix-aai— when   the  du^irc  liad 


b 


ccoinc  a  rcaiitv,  lie  woul 


pa  lilt  I>t,ss  Willi 


LTlury  of  ;.H)l(leii  liair   and    with    velvet    rohcs  fal 
about  her,  and  she  would  look  just  like  a  1 


that 


teautiiui 


jinneess. 


Tl 


le   minister  smiles    when    he    thinks   of 


those   childisli    dreams,    but 


instantlv    the    smile    is 


y     .e,  for  he  recalls  the  day  when    the   1 
stran^a-ly  quiet  and  he  wondered  that  t 


louse  was  so 


le  sun  eoul 


htl 


siiine  as  hriglitiy  as  on  other  davs,  for  the  Wd  of  tin 


ler  s    face   shut 


uneral,  tlicre 


len 


coffin  is  screwed  down  and  his  fath 
away  from  him  forever.  And  after  the  I 
is  his  mother  sittiii,^^  so  ])ale  and  tearless,  and  wl 
her  tall  handsome  son  trie>  to  encoura.^t-  her  with 
his  many  plans,  she  smiles,  tliou-h  with  (piiveriiig 
lil),  at  the  happy  confidence  of  fifteen  years.  Monot- 
onous davs  follow;  days  filled  only  with  a  dull 
routine  of  office  duties;  days  made  bitter  Ijv  a 
thirst  for  kinjwlcdge  and  no  hope  (jf  that  thirst's 
assiuiging. 

.\nd  now  comes  that  morning  when  he  saw  his 
employer's  horses  dashing  madly  down  the  street, 
and  dragging  the  carriage  (in  which  a  little  child 
sat  alone)  recklessly  after  them.  He  had  caught 
the  htjrses  in  time  to  jjrevont  a  collision  with  an 
omnibus,  but  he  himself  had  been  thrown  to  the 
pavement. 

But  now  the  calm  meditative  expression  gives 
place  to  one  of  pain,  for  even  after  all  these  vears 
have  passed,  that  moment  of  supreme  anguish  coni»s 
back  with  tragic  vividness— that  moment  when  he 
returned  to  consciousness,  and  heard  the  doctor  tell- 
ing the  nurse  that  his  back  was  hurt  and  he  would 
probably  be  deformed.      How  apparently  aimless  in 


/ 


;!/ 


:  it    ; 


m 


llil 
i  V! 


I 


'I 

ill 


•■'*'  Ch'(>\v\i:f)    ,\r    i:i.iM. 

its  cruelly  hail  Wclmi  thai  visitali.)ii  nf  disaster.  For 
weeks  lie  lay  with  that  meiilnl  trouble  outwei'/liin''- 
all  his  i)h_\sieal  ri'^duy,  and  iheii  llie  clouds  parted 
so  (juickiy  that  he  duiditcd  t!ie  brilliance  of  the  rav 
that  shone  throu-h.  His  employer  visited  him,  and 
out  of  o-ratitude  for  the  heroic  act  that  had  saved 
his  little  son's  life,  supplied  him  with  monev  sufficient 
tor  a  college  education  and  more  than  enough  to 
take  a  course  in  ,-irt  on  the  Continent. 

With  joy  came  strength.  His  waiting  was  over; 
his  dream  sv<mld  at  last  be  fullilled.  He  felt  tlie 
thrill  of  genius  and  knew  he  WM)uld  succeed.  The 
long-souirht  distant  goal  was  within  sight;  alreadv 
he  saw  Fame  standing  at  his  elbow  and  felt  the 
touch  of  the  laurel  ui)on  his  l)ro\v.  He  ^  cut  to 
college.  Some  of  the  boys  called  him  hunchl)ack, 
but  he  di.l  not  care:  so  long  as  he  had  a  brain  to 
think  and  hands  to  work,  he  cared  not.  Some  day 
he  knew  that  the  misty  foi  ms  of  chniddand  would 
assume  delinite  shapes;  that  the  visions  of  his 
brain  v.-ould  be  wrought  out  in  ideals  of  strength 
and  loveliness. 

The  minister  paused  in  his  reverie.  He  picked  up 
the  tongs  and  poked  the  coals  ;  he  preferred  that  the 
chain  of  thought  should  be  broken,  but  memory 
rushed  heedlessly  on. 

It  was  at  a  meeting  in  a  little  church  that  the 
change  ^ame.  He  liad  gone  with  some  of  the  stu- 
dents to  hear  the  preacher  because  he  was  eccentric 
and  some  of  the  students  found  his  style  amusing. 
And  1  avid  McClashan,  tliougli  he  l)cHevcd  himself 
to  be  a  Christian,  went  to  hear  the  minister  out  of 
mere  curiosity.      The  earnest   words   awakened  his 


CRO\\'xr:i)     .\T     F.I.JM. 


G1 


conscience,  and  from  that  liDitr  he  IciL  liiinsclf  eallctl 
to  ]ircach  thc(ii)spel.  Otall  the  exireniities  in  whicli 
he  had  imagined  he  miglit  he  jjlaeed,  he  had  never 
thought  of  that.  He  trieil  to  ])ut  the  (hiLy  from 
him;  all  his  dreams,  all  the  desires  ot  his  heart  rose 
in  revolt  against  entering  the  ministry.  lie  opened 
his  Bible  to  see  if  he  might  find  guidance  there,  and 
his  eves  caught  the  phrase:  "  Woe  is  me  if  I  preach 
nut  the  Gt)spel."  Then  he  knew  he  would  never  find 
peace  in  any  other  sphere,  and  he  put  aside  all  his 
youthful  dreams  and  entered  the  University  of  St. 
Andrew's.  Rut  though  he  had  obeyed  the  divine 
voice,  yet  the  warfare  in  his  heart  was  not  ended. 
During  his  entire  theological  course,  there  were  times 
when  he  longed  to  return  to  the  career  he  had  fust 
chosen.  To  another,  art  would  have  lieen  a  noble 
calling,  urging  him  away  from  the  frivolities  of 
earth  to  the  region  of  ideals  and  lofty  aspirations— 
to  high  fields  of  thought  and  action.  But  having 
heard  the  Divine  call,  he  felt  that  art  was  to  him 
now  but  the  voice  of  the  tempter  luring  him  to  ruin. 
The  time  came  when  he  was  to  be  ordained. 
And  now  when  he  should  have  given  himself  up  with 
the  fullest  renunciation,  he  experienced  the  tiercest 
conilict  of  his  soul.  He  walked  to  the  church  as  in 
a  dream;  he  felt  that  he  must  even  yet  lling  aside 
this  duty,  even  though  with  it  he  should  throw 
away  all  hope  of  his  soul's  salvation.  Fame  beck- 
oned him,  ambition  urged  him  on.  He  L^iged  to  go 
to  the  countries  made  sacred  by  art,  to  there  hold 
communion  with  the  great  spirits  of  the  past;  to 
look  on  St.  Peter's  at  Rome;  to  study  the  frescoes 
of  the  Sistine  Chajx-l ;   to   visit   I'lorence   where  the 


h\ 


!i 


V 


62 


CRO]VXri>      17-     i:[^jyi_ 


very  air  is  pervaded  with  the  presence  and  rneiiiorv 
"f  Michel  Aii-el.)— all  the  old  eharm  was  a-aiii  upon 
him.  In  siieh  a  niood  he  entered  the  elnircli  and  the 
serviee  be,L,ran.  He  lont^ed  to  put  aa  end  toil;  to 
fry  (Hit  that  he  would  not  he  a  uihiistcr;  l);it  soir.e 
l)ower  within  kept  hi;n  silent.  Otlier  voiees  seemed 
'..)  hehlendin-  with  th.at  of  tlie  minister  who  w,- .s 
speaking;  his  brain  became  eonftised;  phantom 
spectres  passed  before  him  ;  celestial  bein,<.;s  were  set 
in  armed  array  a-ainst  the  legionary  liosts  of  outer 
darkness  and  wt-.  e  battling  for  his  soul. 

Then  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  that  deadly  conflict 
he  had  cried  "Lord,  save  mc  !  I  i)erish!"and  instantly 
tlie  turmoil  of  his   brain   ceased;    a   gleam    of  li-i^t 
shone  through    the  darkness   of  his  despair,  ancfhe 
had  a  vision  of  Him  who  is  imcrcated  and  eternal. 
^\'lf  sank  out  of  view ;   ambition  was  nauglit.      In 
that   moment   of   divine    exaltation    he    seemed    to 
belong  to  no  age  or  country;  he  was  conscious  only 
of  the  great  dignity   which   was   ordained  for  man 
when  dawn  first  broke  upon  the  earth;  "when    the 
morning  stars  sang  together  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
shouted  for  joy."     .\nd  then  he  saw  man's  guilt  and 
tall,  and  his  soul  bowed  in  deep  contrition  before  the 
Ineffable  who  liad  redeemed   him   and   had  allowed 
him  to   become   an   instrument  to  bring  other  wan- 
derers home.     Then  in  the  moment  of  hiiVlicd  silence, 
when  he  bowed  before  die  ministers  and  they  placed 
their  hands  upon  his  head,  he  heard  Jehovah  .raying 
to  him  as  He  had  said  to  the  projjhets  of  old,  "  O  son 
of  man,  I  have  set  thee  a  watchman  unto  tli'e  hou^e 
of  Israel."      "Behold  I  have  made  thee  this  day  a 
defenced  city."     "  Xeglect  not  the  gift  that  is  in  thee 


a 


CROWXni)     AT     r.I.IM. 


g;! 


which  was  given  tliee  In-  projjhccv."  "  They  that  he 
wise  sli.'ill  shine  .'IS  the  hriL;hl!ic,-s  of  tlic  firinaDieiit, 
aii'l  they  that  turn  many  to  ri_L;hteousness  as  the 
stars  i"i>rever  and  ever."  Wlien  Onvitl  McGlaslian 
rose  to  h.is  feet  the  eonHiet  wa-;  endeil. 

Again  the  minister  paused  in  liis  reverie  Could 
it  be  that  that  youtli  wiih  his  si>ul  on  fin  for  art, 
who  bad  given  up  his  eliosen  eal'ing  with  such  a 
struggle,  was  he— David  Met'dashan  of  Riverside? 
A  long  road  lay  between  the  youthful  zealot  and  the 
grave  minister— long,  not  in  years  but  in  ex])erienees. 
First  of  all,  he  had  not  been  longpcrmitted  to  remain 
on  Pisgali's  height  from  which,  on  his  ordination 
day,  he  had  caught  those  vivid  glimpses  of  the  Holv 
City.  He  was  called  to  come  down  from  that  hi<>h 
vantage  point  of  vision  to  the  arena  of  life  where 
those  lofty  and  exhilarati  g  feelings  were  to  lie  re- 
l)laced  by  the  faithful  and  patient  perforinance  of 
duty. 

The  peojjle  of  Riverside,  having  heard  through 
friends  at  home  of  the  young  minister's  earnest 
work,  gave  him  a  call,  and  he  came  to  Canada  bring- 
ing Bess  with  him— (their  mother  had  been  laid  at 
rest  some  years  before).  The  peojile  of  Riverside 
were  not  disappointed  in  the  pastor  they  had  chosen, 
while  the  minister  was  pleased  with  his  charge. 
Ever_vthing  was  going  along  satisfactorily;  he  and 
Ress  were  just  comfortably  settled  in  their  cosv 
cottage  when  a  new  trial  awaited  him.  He  had 
been  called  one  night  to  the  bedside  of  a  dviner 
jiarishioner  and  Bess,  ever  anxious  for  his  comfort, 
left  a  candle  burning  on  a  table  not  far  from  the 
window,  tliat  there  might  be  light  when  he  returned. 


1.  il 

I  il 


ii ) 


ril 


m 


m 

\    i: 


}. 


04 


Ck-()\\xni)   AT    i:lim. 


The   window    was   ..ik-i,,    and    tlie  curtain  swavin^' 
hack  and  forth  in  the  hrcczc  cau-ht  the  fl.iinc.    When 
he   returned,    he   opened    the   (h)or  and    stood  for  a 
moment  motionless  with  horror;  the  wholv  interior 
of  their  cotta-e  was  in  a  hia/r.      He   spr.-n-  to  tlie 
room  where  Hess  slept  and  liftin.u  her  in  lu'r  death- 
hkc  sleep  carried    her   outside,  hut   he  was  too  late; 
she  never  re-,^ained  consciousness.      It  was  hours  he- 
fore  he  knew  that    he   himseli-  was  hurned,  and   the 
scars  on  his  face  remained  as  witnesses  of  tJiat  tra<jric 
ni.^dlt.      He  thought  of  those  scars  nov.-  with  a 're- 
gretful  smile.      He   had    loved    beautv    as   on'y    his 
artist  soul  could    love   it,    but   phvsical   beautv  had 
not  the  same  charm    for  him    now  that  it  once  had 
He  knew  there  was  a  beauty  which  no  accident  could 
mar-a  beauty  wrought  from    the  loom  of  a  conse- 
crated life,  and  wdiich  alone  was  worth  striving  for. 
His  sister's   death    had  l)een  a  most  cruel  blow' 
He  never  realized   until   she   was  gone  how  much  he 
had  depended   on   her  companionship.      There   were 
depths  in  his  nature  which  were  unsuspected  bv  any- 
one save   Ress.      His   sensitive   nature   instinctively 
shrank   from    disclosing   liis   innermost    self   to    un- 
appreciative  friends:    to    her   he  could  aia-avs  open 
his  heart  freely,  for   he    was   sure  of  comprehension 
and  sympathy  there.     He  did  not,  however,  tabulate 
his  griefs  .m  this  way,  for  he  was  not  given  to  pitying 
selt-analysis.     He  was  conscious  only  that  there  was 
a  void  in  his  life  which  could   never  again  be  filled 
and  the  loneliness  was  at  times  al-.nost  unbearable.' 
He  was  roused  from  his  reverie  bv  the  slrikin^  of 
the  clock.     Ten  o'clock?     What  a  time  he  h    d  ireen 
dreammg  by  the   fire!      He  must  not  sit  thus   idlv 


I  -1 


CA'OU'.V/;/;     AT     ni.IM. 


i", 


dreaming'.  lie  had  work  to  do,  and  it  was  time  lie 
was  about  it.  Outside,  the  rain  was  a^^^aiu  falling,' 
with  a  monotonous  patter  against  the  windows,  hut 
it  was  time  he  was  otT.  The  baseball  team  would  l)e 
returning;  shortly  from  York,  and  he  must  not  let 
Leyden  Hell  go  with  the  boys  to  the  Red  Lion.  In  a 
moment  he  was  out  in  the  rain  and  darkness.  It 
was  doubtless  a  ;a:ood  thin>;  for  David  MeCMashan 
that  he  felt  it  his  tluty  to  share  theburdens  of  others, 
for  it  kei)t  him  from  broodini,'  over  his  own  troubles. 

To-night,  however,  as  he  stood  in  the  rain,  the 
lights  which  streamed  from  the  windows  of  Vine- 
mount  filled  his  heart  with  a  strange,  new  happiness. 
Out  there  in  the  chilling  rain,  he  was  living  over 
again  those  moments  in  the  twilight  when  he  and 
Trema  had  stood  together  in  the  sunset  glow.  But 
just  then  the  rumble  of  the  stagecoach  broke  in  ui)on 
his  meditations.  The  boys  were  proclaiming  to 
Riverside  residents,  in  no  uncertain  voice,  that  thev 
were  returning  victorious.  Leyden  Bell  was  the 
first  to  jximp  from  the  stage. 

"  Hurrah  for  the  Junior  Tigers  !  "  he  yelled.  Then 
when  he  noticed  his  pastor,  "Oh,  Mr.  McC^lashan. 
we  vanquished  the  Royalists.  It  was  a  great  game. 
Seventeen  hits,  including  two  doubles,  three  triples, 
and  a  home  run  was  our  work.  The  Royalists  only 
secured  four  singles." 

"I'm  glad  the  Junior  Tigers  won;  but,  Leyden, 
do  not  go  with  the  boys  tf)  the  Red  Lion  to-night." 

"Oh,  Mr.  McGlashan.  I  must!  The  boys  will 
have  it  that  it  was  my  fielding  that  ended  the  game 
in  such  a  brilliant  way  for  us.  The  Royalists  treated 
us  right  handsomely,  and  Captain  Blake  sent  word 


!m: 


I  ■ 


w 


66 


CRonwr:!)    at    f.lim. 


to  have  an  oyster  su])i)cr  rt-ady  for  iis  wlicti  wej^'ot 
back  to  KivL-rsidc,  and  the  hoys  won't  Hkc  it  it"  I 
don't  j^o." 

In  the  meantime  tlie  coaeh  was  emptied  of  its 
noisy  freight,  and  tlie  hoys  were  rtisliing  j)eU  niell 
ah>ng  the  street.  "Come  on,  Leyd,"  they  called, 
as  they  s.iw  him  still  talking.  The  tninister  Laid  a 
detaining  hand  i>n  the  hoy's  shouhler.  "  Levden, 
rememl)er  yonr  promise." 

"Oil,  I  do  remember;  I)ut  I  must  break  itjust 
this  once.  After  to-night  I  promise  you  I  will  never 
touch  liciuor  agair.,"  saying  which,  he  joined  his 
companions  and  left  his  jiastor  standing  there. 

David  McGlashan  turned  homeward  with  a 
heavy  heart.  If  he  could  oidy  depend  on  Levden. 
But  now  that  he  had  broken  his  i)romise,  he  would 
likely  break  it  again.  .\s  the  minister  walked  along 
the  muddy  road  and  uj)  the  avenue  under  tliedripping 
trees,  lie  was  tempted  to  give  uj)  his  sclf-imposetl  task 
and  let  the  boy  go  to  ruin  if  he  wanted  to. 

For  four  years  he  hrul  watched  over  Leyden  Rell, 
trying  to  keep  him  out  of  harm's  way,  and  notwith- 
standing all  his  efforts,  the  boy  was  going  headlong 
to  ruin  .\fter  all,  why  should  lie  care?  Was  lie 
more  responsible  than  Donald  Bell,  who,  under  the 
jiressure  of  business  cares,  did  not  seem  to  have  time 
to  h)ok  after  his  son?  In  such  a  mood,  he  took 
off  his  wet  coat,  and  sat  down  to  read  a  little 
before  retiring.  But  he  could  settle  his  thoughts  on 
nothing,  for,  notwithstanding  his  decision,  he  was 
again  worrying  about  the  boy;  for  he  loved  the 
liandsome,  sunny  tempered  lad,  and  could  not  stand 
by  and  see  him  become  a  hopeless  drunkard. 


Ch'(>\v.\i:i>    AT   r.i.iM. 


C7 


# 


Rut  was  tlicrt-  mis  liopof  a  l)()_v  vlio  ha  1  Irarnctl 
lo  like  lii|iiMr  at  tuchc  years  ofa;^*.'?  It  was  a  lililc 
over  tour  years  a;;o,  tliat  he  had  found  Leydeii  wi  li 
some  oti  or  lioys  sittiii,;;  on  the  grass  i.e.ir  the  Inew- 
ery  drinking  beer.  What  a  levelaticn  that  had  been  I 
H  was  ainiost  a  stranv^cr  in  Riverside  then,  and  had 
adi.iired  tlic  i  unblitig  oid  buii(hng  eneireled  witli  a 
wide  siretc 'i  of  smooth,  green  sward,  and  silhouetted 
against  a  baekground  of  forest  trees,  then  ch.thed  in 
tender  g  een.  Its  position  in  that  picturestjue  spot 
seemed  to  indicate  that  the  building  had  been  tie- 
signed  for  a  nobler  work  than  the  brewing  of  i  lalt. 

But  David  McOlashan.  wholly  engrossed  in  pic- 
tures(iue  effects,  gave  Httl'.-  thought  to  what  was 
going  on  within  its  walls  till  the  d.iy  he  came  upon 
the  hoys  with  the  pail  of  beer  before  them.  He  then 
discovered  that  the  i)ictures(jue  Id  1)uilding  was  the 
worm  in  the  ship's  keel,  which  was  si  wly  but 
certainly  W' irking  the  destruction  of  those  who 
trusted  their  lives  to  the  ^  a)  This,  Riverside  would 
awake  to  see  when  too  late,  f<  -  the  youth  of  the 
town  were  taking  their  first  steps  in  the  downward 
])ath  which  has  only  one  eiuhng.  Licpior  was  given 
them  at  the  brewery  freely  as  water;  they  might 
have  it  any  time  for  the  asking;  yes,  and  without 
the  asking.  f'  had  bec(nne  customary  for  the  boys 
to  loiter  along  the  liver  bank  on  their  way  from 
sciiool,  slij)  into  the  building  and  get  the  beer,  wdiich 
was  never  refused  them,  and  then  continue  their 
way,  all  imconscious  that  invisible  chains  were  being 
forged  about  them  which  \n  ould  one  day  resist  even 
a  giant's  strength. 

The  minister  had  been  pained  beyond  measure  to 


68 


Ck(i\v\r:n    \r    i:i.!\f. 


fiiul  lA-ydcn  Ikll  amoii^'  tlioM'  hoys.  lie  -.v.-is  such  a 
Ijri^hl  hoy,  so  clever  .-i^ul  so  proinisiii;^  ,  in  his  heaii- 
tilul  hrowii  eyes  the  suiisliiiie  sceiiieil  alwavstohe 
sleeping,  .-md  his  dnrk  h.iir  clustered  in  curls  over  a 
forche.'id  as  white  as  snow. 

It  w.-is  ahout  this  time  that  another  incident 
occnired,  which  strengthened  David  Mc(  il.ishan's 
resolve  to  .^ivc  his  whole  elTort  to  ])ntting  down  in- 
temperance He  was  one  moriiin.L,''  returning;  from 
the  country  when  he  saw  a  little  child  lyin^' hy  t!ie 
road,  ajiparenlly  overcome  hy  the  heat.  IIejuni])ed 
hastily  from  the  carriaj^e  and  lifted  the  child  in  his 
arms.  '•  Why,  it's  Kohhie  Strachan  !  "  he  cried,  and 
then  suddenly  turned  pale  with  horror,  for  fumes  of 
Tupior  came  irom  those  hahv  lips. 

lie  placed  the  child  in  the  carria.txe  and  drove  lilm 
home.  The  servant,  greatly  excited,  met  them  at  the 
gate.  Mrs.  Strachau  was  visiting  at  Caledonia, 
and  Kol)hie  had  gone  away  without  his  hreakfast. 
The  servant  had  searched  everywliere,  and  was 
almost  distracted  with  grief  as  she  thought  that  he 
had  fallen  into  the  river.  She  was  greatly  relieved, 
therefore,  when  she  saw  the  minister  with  her  little 
cliarge  in  his  arms,  and  she  ran  at  once  for  Dr. 
Blair.  Tlie  doctor  came  almost  immediatelv,  and 
as  they  hent  anxiously  over  the  child,  David  Mc- 
Glashan  asked : 

"How  do  you  suppose  Rohljie  came  to  he  in  a 
state  like  this?" 

"It  is  hard  to  say,"  rejjlied  the  doctor.  "Pro- 
ba])ly  one  of  the  men  at  the  hrewery  gave  him  a 
drink  for  fun,  and  as  lie  had  had  no  breakfast  it  made 
him  verv  ill." 


4   ^ 


Ch'(iWM:i)     AT     r.l.lM. 


<;',» 


"  The  wrctclics!  TIkv  should  l)c  arrcsli'd.  Is  it 
l)()ssil)lf  such  thiuj^'s  crin   hr  in   lK',>uliriil  Riverside?" 

The  doctor  lau<^die(l  li^dilly.  "Such  things  not 
oidy  can  he.  hut  hrive  l)ceti,  and  will  continue  to  I)e." 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  I  do  not  see  what  you  lan  do." 

"  I  shall  have  the  brewery  closed." 

"  P.ut  that  will  he  takin;.^  away  people's  lihertv. 
This  is  a  hee  country,  and  if  a  man  wants  to  nni  a 
brewery  no  one  may  say  him  nay." 

"Then  I  shall  petition  the  government  to  close 
it." 

"That  would  he  little  use,  you  see,  for  this  isonlv 
one  out  of  many  breweries  in  Canada.  Moreover, 
there  always  has  been  li(pior  in  the  world,  and  pro- 
bably always  will  be,  and  hoys  and  other  jjcople, 
too,  must  learn  to  resist  such  things.  If  thev  are 
taught  self-control,  such  evils  will  not  hurt  them. 
Von  cannot  legislate  people  into  being  Christians, 
you  know." 

"  Legislation  certainlv  cannot  change  the  heart, 
but  it  can  do  much  to  raise  the  morality  of  the 
nation." 

The  doctor  looked  politely  incredulous. 

"It  has  been  said  from  close  observation,"  con- 
tinued the  minister,  "  that  people  are  the  product  of 
their  environment,  and  it  depends  a  good  deal  on 
our  legislation  to  say  what  that  environment  shall 
be.  It  is  impossible  to  be  surrounded  b\'  vice  and 
remain  untainted.  Humanity  is  a  vast  nervous  sys- 
tem ;  a  festered  sore  in  any  part  will  aflect  the  health 
of  all  around.  If  we  live  in  the  midst  of  a  loathsome 
moral  miasma,  we  cannot  escape  infection.     But, 


n 


w 


ro 


ci<<)\v.\r:fi    1 /•   ni.iM. 


happily,  tr„o,l„css  is  just  as  potent  a  factor  in  Mxietv 
as  evil.  A„,l,  Dr.  Hlair.  I  sha'  never  cease  while  I 
have  stren-th  to  root  out  chis  evil  of  intemperance, 
and  It  I  -row  wenry  in  the  task  the  nieniorv  of  this 
baby  lyinir  unconscious  in  a  drunken  sleep  will.  1  am 
sure,  nerve  me  to  renewed  effort." 

"Hut  this  is  an  uncommon  cnse,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  I  never  l)efore  saw  a  child  under  the  in- 
fluence of  liquor,  and  such  a  thing  inav  not  occur 
again  in  the  history  of  the  town." 

"That  the  evil  goes  stalking  about  ready  to 
devour  the  innocent,  is  incentive  enough  to  work 
ior  Its  destruction." 

The  minister  hrul  left  then  and  srid  he  would  call 
later  ,n  the  day.  It  was  nearly  flve  o'clock  when  he 
was  free  to  go;  he  found  the  child  still  sleeping,  but 
he  wakened  in  a  few  minutes  and  looked  wonderin-lv 
at  his  visitor.  "  " 

"You  were  sick.  Robbie,  and  I  came  to  see  vou. 
I  hope  you  fcvd  better  now  ?  " 

"  Was  I  sick  -^  What  day  is  it  ?  Is  the  tv/entv- 
fourth  over?  " 

"No,  the  twenty-fourth  is  to-morrow." 

"  Oh,  Ts  so  gla.i."  Then  sighing  heavilv,  "  But 
we  didn't  get  any  pennies  for  fi'a-erackers,  johniie 
an'  me  didn't." 

"  Did  you  try  to  get  some  ?  " 

"Yes.  Johnnie  said  if  we  jiicked  up  bones  ai  ' 
pieces  of  old  iron  an'  took  them  to  Isaacs,  he  vvould 
g'.ve  us  pennies.  An'  we  worked  an'  worked  till  we 
got  a  big  lot  an'  piled  them  on  mv  little  cart,  an' 
then  we  got  up  early,  'cause  Johnnie  said  Is'aacs 
would  be  away  if  we  were  late;   and  I  came  down 


\  \ 


I  ;<1 


CRO]V.\!:i)     AT     f:Ll.-\f. 


71 


tlie  stairs  so  quiet  'e.-iusc  K.-ite  wouldn't  let  me  go, 
p'obabh-.  An'  oh,  my  cart  was  heavy.  I  was  so 
ti'ed,  and  it  was  so  far  ova  there,  you  know  where" 
(wearily  waving  his  little  hand  in  the  direction,  as 
if  a  more  lucid  explanation  were  too  great  an  etfort) 
"an"  then  old  Isaacs  said  he  couldn't  give  us  j)ennies, 
'cause  we  didn'u  have  enough  bones  .'in'  iron,  but  he 
would  give  us  something  to  dwink.  Johnnie  only 
tasted  his,  but  I  dwank  all  mine.  I  wanted  my 
breakfus'  awful  bad." 

"  And  then  you  got  sleepy  ?  " 

"Yes.  Johnnie  was  cwying  'cause  old  Isaacs 
didn't  give  us  pennies,  an'  I  told  h  m  to  go  home  an' 
I  would  just  lie  down  on  the  grass  a  little  while." 

"Poor  little  fellow!  No  wonder  you  were  ill. 
Well,  here  are  iome  pennies  that  the  old  Jew  should 
have  given  you." 

Robbie  opened  his  blue  eyes  wide.  "  Did  Isaacs 
give  them  to  you  for  us  ?  " 

"  No, but  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  disappointed." 
"Rut  Mr.  'Glashan,  you  didn't  get  the  pieces  of 
iron  an'  bones." 

"  Oh,  I  see  !  You  want  to  give  something  in  ex- 
change for  the  pennies.  Well,  my  lawn  is  just  about 
yellow  with  dandelions,  and  you  and  Johnnie  may 
pick  them  for  the  pennies.     Is  that  a  bargain  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  an'  won't  Johnnie  1)e  glad  !  I'd  like  to 
go  now."  He  sat  up  eagerly,  but  lay  back  almost 
immediately.  "Oh,  I  is  so  w'etched,"he  said  wearily. 
"  Please,  Mr.  'Glashan,  give  these  pennies  to  Johnnie. 
He  will  pick  the  dandelions;  my  mama  will  be  home 
to-morrow  an'  she  has  lots  of  pennies,  but  Johnnie's 
mama  hasn't  any.     That  was  why  he  cwied." 


u  \f 


1 


!    ) 


!    »  •! 


Ifi     \ 


■>i 


I    ■;] 


\t- 


I 


72 


CRO\V\r:i)     ,\T    EI.IM. 


"Allri-ht.  ril  hunt  Johnnie  iii)  and  c,Mve  liini 
tlic])cnnies  and  tell  him  al^out  the 'dandelions.  I 
h.jpe  you  will  he  l)etter  in  the  inornintr  and  that  vou 
will  have  a  real  good  time  on  the  Queen's  Birthday. 
I  cxpeet  that  you  will  break  all  the  glass  in  the 
wnidows  to-morrow  with  your  firecrackers." 

"So  it  wasn't  the  brewery  after  all  that  was  the 
cause   of   the   mischief."    the    minister   mused    as   he 
walked  homeward.     "  Well,  it  is  only  another  of  the 
monster's    kin.    appearing   in    the   form  of  tluat   old 
Isaacs.      The   rascal!      To  pay  the   little   fellows  in 
Satan's  own  coin.      And  yet,  poor  old  man.  I  do  not 
suppose  he  rerdized  what  lie  was  doing.     Miserliness 
IS  the  curse  of  his  naticm.     What  a  noble  little  fellow 
K<.bbie  is.     Pathetic  as  it  was.  hi:;  descrii)tion  of  the 
art;ia-  nearly  made  me  laugh.     The  vvay  he  said  '  I  is 
so  w'etchcd,'  was  almost  too  much  for  my  gravity." 
It    was    these   two   incidents   in    ])art'icular.  and 
several    things   in   general,    that  caused    David    Mc- 
Olashan    at    the    very   beginning  of   his    ministerial 
career  to  l)ecome  a  zealous   advocate   for  the  cause 
of  temperance.       In    a   measure,  his  work    had  met 
with  success.      A  number  of  the  bovs  weie  not  oulv 
temperate,  but   shared    in    the  enthusiasm    of   theiV 
leader,    and    thes(    boys    v.-ere    the  majoritv.    but   in 
the  mmority  was  I.eyden    Dell.      Four  vears  of  un- 
ceasmg  effort,    and    I.eyden    that    Xovend,er   night 
was   not   one  step   forward   o.i  the  i)ath  of  refomi 
He  was.  indeed,  wor«e   than   at  the  beginning;    for 
there   was  his  broken  promise,  which  he  had^given 
so  earnestly  a  morth    before,  that    he   would  never 
again    touch    intoxicating   li,,uor.       No    wom'er   his 
pastor  was  discof.i-aged.      Discouraged   he  certainlv 


cr'()\vxf:i)    at   i:lim. 


l^ 


was,  but  not  yet  would  he  ^nve  Leyden  up.  So  two 
hours  hiter  lie  might  have  been  seen  ajj;ain  finding 
his  w<'=v  through  the  gloomy  night.  The  rain  had 
turned  to  snow  and  already  Mie  dripping  world  was 
changing  to  a  sjjotless  whiteness.  The  village  was 
as  silent  as  a  eity  of  the  dead;  from  the  Red  Lion 
alone  lights  gleamed.  And  to  the  Red  Lio,i  David 
Me(;i."shan  went.  The  inn  was  not  large  and  he  had 
no  diffi'  ;ll  in  finding  his  way  to  the  room  where 
sui)per  had  l)cen  served.  Without  hesitation  he 
opened  the  door  and  passed  within.  .\s  the  evil 
si)irits  in  the  dread  Circle*  were  smitten  into  silence 
by  the  coming  of  the  Messenger  of  Heaven,  so  were 
the  carouscrs  abashed  I)y  the  unexi)ected  appearance 
of  the  minister.  The  loud  laugh  was  hushed;  the 
song  died  upon  their  li])s.  Was  it  the  minister,  or 
was  it  St.  Michael  who  confronted  them,  so  tall  and 
pale  and  stern  ?  St.  Michael  it  must  be,  for  so  much 
of  majesty  docs  not  cling  about  a  mere  man. 

The  intruder  looked  in  silence  on  the  many 
bottles,  the  filled  glasses,  on  all  the  evidences  of 
the  midnight  revel,  and  then  the  stern  eyes  went 
down  the  length  <jf  the  room  seeking  soniethiiv 
which  they  did  not  find;  then  1)ack  again  with  a 
keen  glance  into  each  flushed  face.  He  nntst  be 
there;  yes,  and  he  was  there.  With  swift  strides 
the  minister  reached  that  vacant  chair,  l»y  which 
Leyden  was  lying  overct)me  by  his  libations. 

"Leyden,  Leyden,  my  boy!"  Infinitely  tender 
were  the  w<,rds,  and  yet  they  found  their  wav 
through  th';  dulled  consciousness  of  the  lad.  He 
stirreil,     m\  nnirmured  something  unintelligible. 

"L  yden,    you    must   go   home."     He  raised  the 


■it 


s 


I  t; 


I 


""Dante's  lut'erno."    Canto  IX.,  11,  iO^ 


-lOG. 


:;  i. 


aJJ 


74 


CA'nn-.v/;/;    at   ELi.\r. 


boy  gently  and  stood  liini  upon  liis  feet;  helped  liim 
to  the  door,  and  out  into  the  nigh*. 

When  the  (k)or  eU>sed  the  young  men  sat  mute 
and  still,  for  each  had  read  in  that  grave,  stern  ga^e 
that  he  had  been  weighed  in  a  Ijalanee  and  had  been 
found  wanting.  Their  consciences  told  them  that 
the  verdict  was  true,  for  not  only  had  thcv  them- 
selves fallen  short  of  a  worthy  manhood,  but  each 
had  taken  a  malicious  delight  in  bringing  about  the 
downfall  of  Ley  den  Bell.  The  minister's  efforts  had 
not  escaped  their  notice,  and  in  proportion  as  he  had 
worked  to  save  the  boy,  they  had  i)lanned  to  bring 
about  his  ruin.  Rut  aiow,  in  the  presence  of  that 
man  of  power,  each  realized  how  contemptible  his 

conduct   had   been,   and    many   resolves   were   made 

that  night  to  lead  better  lives. 

Meanwhile,  the  minister  was  helping  his  charge 

through  the  snow,  and  weary  work  it  was,  though 

his    thoughts    were   too    busy   for  him  to  realize  his 

fatigue. 

Poor  Mrs.  Bell !  How  he  dreaded  the  mother  to 
see  her  boy  in  that  awful  state  of  helpless  drutdicn- 
ness.  Yet  she  would  have  to  know;  she  had  been  in 
ignorance  long  enough. 

A  light  was  burning  in  the  house.  Some  one  was 
waiting  for  Leyden's  return  and  opened  tlie  door 
before  the  minister  reached  it ;  it  was  Mrs.  Bell.  Her 
lips  ])arted  in  startled  surprise  when  she  saw  them, 
but  no  question  came.  In  that  brief  -lance  she 
seemed  to  understand  it  all.  Very  cpiietly  she  led 
the  way  to  tlie  sitting  room,  wdiere  David  Mc- 
Glaslian  placed  t!ie  ])(.y  nn  a  couch.  He  spoke  to 
the  m,.tlier  in   a   hushed  way,  for  the   solemnity  of 


f«> 


CROWXED    AT    RLIM. 


75 


death  seemed  to  enfiild  her.  He  tried  to  lighten  her 
sorrow  to  give  her  hope  that  .eyden  woukl  yet 
fulfd  her  expectations;  but  cveii  as  he  spoke  he 
felt  h>'\v  fniitle--^  were  his  etTorts,  for  he  himself  was 
hopeless,  v^he  thanked  him  in  a  few  grateful  words, 
and  even  ^ried  to  smile  w'leii  she  parted  with  him  at 
the  door,  tho'"^h  the  lo(-k  of  unspeakable  anguish 
never  left  her  ci..rk  eyes. 

When  she  returned  to  the  sitting  room,  5he 
broi  ht  a  plaid  and  laid  it  over  her  boy.  T.  was 
that  ver\  ifternoon  that  she  had  folded  it  and  laid 
it  awav.  She  remembered  that  she  had  been  sintrin<^ 
in  very  gladness  of  heart  as  she  did  it.  Was  the 
afternoon  separated  from  her  by  hours  or  by  years? 
It  seemed  years,  and  that  she  had  already  grown 
old.  Was  it  really  Leyden  who  was  lying  in  that 
awful  state,  or  was  she  drf^aming?  If  she  made 
a  violent  effort,  wo.dd  she  not  be  able  to  shake 
off  the  numbness  wh-ch  seemed  jiaralyzing  her,  and 
find  that  it  .vas  only  a  dream?  Alas  I  it  was  no 
dream. 

And  yet  it  did  not  seem  Img  since  he  had  one 
day  toddled  up  to  her  wiiii  a  book  almost  as  big  as 
himself,  and  said,  "Here  is  the  Bible;  read  to  me 
a).  )A\  Josus."  And  she,  thinking  the  biblical  account 
unintelligible  to  a  child  of  three  years,  attempted  to 
tell  him  the  story  in  her  ow-  way,  and  he  had  lis- 
tened with  attention  till  he  found  lureyes  wandering 
from  the  printed  page  and  then  he  said  indignantly, 
"You  is  not  reailing  it  at  all,  you  is  nuiking  it  up," 
whereupon  he  had  emphatically  closed  the  book  and 
asked  her  to  tell  him  the  storv  of  the  little  leaf  And 
she  had  told  him  of  a  tiny  leaf  that  had  come  out 


I 


ii 


11  u 


"«  crowm:!)   at   i:lim, 

one  Tuorninir  shiverin;;  in  llic  sprinir  wind,  and  clung 
tl.nidly    to    til-   branch,    till    the   branch    whispered'^ 
"Don't    l>c  afraid,  little   leaf,    the   wind    won't  hurt 
vou,  and  some  day  it  will  take  you    on  a  pleasant 
journey."        The     leaf    grew     large    and     beautiful, 
and  rfter  a  while  Jack  I-n.st  gave  it  a  pretty  new 
red  dress;  then  one  day  the  wind  came  and  carried 
it  straight  across  a  big  garden  to  a  veranda  where 
a  sick  child  was  lying,  and  he  put  out  his  hands  and 
caught  the  leaf,  crying  glccfLdly,  "  Oh,  mother,  see  the 
beautiful  leaf!"      And   all  day  long  he  held  it  in  his 
little  hot  hand,  and  at  night  he  went  to  bleep  with 
the  leaf  pressed   against   his  cheek.      After   a    long 
silence.  Leyden  had  said.  "  Yes,"  as  if  the  story  were 
satisfactory;  "tell  me   more   about   the  little  bov." 
And  she  could  feel  the  pressure  of  his  arms  around 
her  neck  even  yet,  as  he  told  her.  when  she  had  fin- 
ished, that  it  was  a  nice  story.      Hut   her  l)aby  was 
gone  and  in  his  place  was  a  boy,  a  young  man",  lying 
♦^here— like  that !     The  contrast  was  too  painful ;"  she 
turned  away  with  a  shudder;    tears  gathered  in  her 
eyes  and  relief  came  to  her  pent-up  heart. 


CKOWNUU     AT     ELIM. 


'n 


I.I' 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE    morning'   after   her  errand   to    the  manse, 
Trema   awoke   with   a  start,  and  was  for  a 
brief  moment  surprised  to  find  herself  in  her 
own  room  at  home,   for  she   had   liad  a  very  vivid 
ui-eam.      Memory  had  taken  her  to  Luce-  ie  and  slie 
was  at  the  very  foot  of  ru<,r^'ed  old  FilaLus,  when  she 
noticed  David  McGlashan  far  up  the  mountain  path. 
He  had  beckcmed  to    her  to   come  uj),  and  had  held 
out  his  hand  to  assist  her  as  she  drew  near.      Then 
together  they  had  climbed   to   where   flowers   were 
blooming,    when     suddenly,     without    a    moment's 
warning,   an   avalanche  of  snow  had   swej)!  u\wn 
them,  hurling  them  down  a  precipice.    Just  then  she 
awoke,  and  even  to  her  waking  senses  there  seemed 
to  be  a  warm  heaviness  in  the  air  as  there  had  been 
in  her  dream.      She   went   to   the   window  and  sure 
enough  there  had  beei    in  avalanche  in   the  night, 
though  quite  different  from  that  in  her  dream.      For 
the  snow  clung  to  the  damp  fences  and  the  walls  of 
buildings ;  it  heajied  its  fairy  whiteness  on  the  trees 
and  shrubs   in    lavish    profusion;     it    curled    softlv 
around  the  eaves  of  houses   and  changed  every  un- 
sightly thing  and  every  irregular  outline  into  round- 
ed graceful  beauty.      The  lau  i  seemed   fit  only  for 
the  abode  of  fairies.      Its  enure  length  presented  a 


II : 

•f!  i 


'  I 


!!  I: 


\ 


I 


\  I 


\i 


Ch'OWM^D     AT     ELIM. 


vista  of  fantastic  shapes  sucli  as  were  never  con- 
ceived 1),-  the  niitid  of  man.  Nature  alone  is  ca])al)le 
of  sucli  intricacy  of  (lesi^^n.  I-)acli  branch  freighted 
with  its  spotless  burden  drooped  jj;racefully  to  the 
earth,  while  the  vines  which  yesterday  hung  so  dis- 
consolately in  a  tangled  mass,  now  seemed  a  delicate 
intricate  ])atLern  of  softest  lacework.  Not  a  breath 
of  wind  stirred.  It  was  as  if  Nature  exhausted  with 
her  exertions,  was  now  taking  her  repose. 

"What  a  pity  the  fairies  alone  might  inhabit 
such  a  ])cautiful  sjjot."  she  said  at  last.  "  Man  will 
only  mar  it.  First  thing,  Thomas  will  be  shovelling 
off  th'.'  steps  and  digging  a  road  out  to  the  gate.  I 
supi)ose,  too,  he  will  think  it  his  bounden  dutv  to 
tramp  around  to  all  the  trees  and  shake  the  snow 
off  the  bratiches,  lest  they  break.  Such  is  the  life  of 
martens  I  And  then  there  are  the  boys  who  will 
delight  in  this  beautiful  snow  just  because  it  is  of 
the  right  consistency  to  make  a  good  snow  man. 
And  it  will  be  fine  for  that  "  she  added,  a  little  wist- 
fully. She  felt  at  that  moiii_nt  that  it  was  an  incon- 
venient thing  to  be  looked  upon  as  grown  up,  when 
her  heart  still  clung  to  the  pleasures  of  the  short 
dress  ])eriod. 

A  few  hours  later,  she  might  have  been  seen 
perched  on  a  i)yramid  of  sleds,  and  putting  the  finish- 
ing touches  to  a  very  artistic  nose  on  a  newlv-.aaiic 
snow  man.  She  had  walched  the  operations  of 
some  boys  with  keen  interest,  till  their  lack  of  artistic 
skill  overcame  her  sense  of  digiiily,  and  she  begge  1 
]pei  mission  t(j  join  them.  She  was  p.itting  the  head 
here  and  there,  an;l  trying  to  give  it  an  air  of 
majesty  (which  was  the  charaeLeri.^Lic  Uaturc  o^  the 


c'A'oir.v/;/;    i  r   i:lim. 


79 


busts   in    her   father's   library)    when    she   heard  tlic 
slei-^'h     hells,     and     turned     to     see     Mr. 


J'!i; 


o{ 


Me(;iashan  drivin<,'  al(ni<,-  the  road  towards  them. 
She  reco-nized  iiha  with  a  sense  of  dismay.  Was  he 
froinir  to  see  her  in  every  undi-nified  aetion  of  her 
life,  while  the  many  dignified  tilings  whieli  she  did 
never  were  seen  ? 

To  retreat  was  impossible,  so  she  gave  the  chin 
an  extra  jab  to  increase  its  firmness  (she  alwavs  ad- 
mired firmness  in  the  chin  of  a  statesman,  and  it  was 
a  statesman  she  was  modeling)  and  trust. -d  to  the 
Fates  from  being  discovered ;  but  those  were  keen 
eyes  in  that  rapidly  appn. aching  sleigh.  Afar  off 
David  McOlashan  had  detected  that  golden  brown 
curly  hair,  on  which  the  toboggan  cap  rested  so 
jauntily.  If  he  would  only  cross  the  bridge;  if  he 
would  only  go  anywhere  but  home  just  now,  she 
would  be  very  glad  ;  but  there  was  no  escape.  Not 
only  was  he  going  to  see  her,  but  evidentlv  he  was 
going  to  speak  to  her. 

When  she  saw  him  reining  in  his  horse  prepara- 
tory to  alighting,  she  b.-gan  dubiously  to  descend 
from  her  perch. coming  down  much  more  deliberatelv 
than  she  had  ascended.  There  were  still  two  sleds 
between  her  and  the  ground  when  the  minister 
reache.l  the  snow  man,  and  catching  the  hands  of 
the  amateur  sculptor,  he  lifted  her  lightly  to  the 
ground.  This  did  not  lessen  the  roses  in  her  checks 
and,  to  add  to  her  confusion,  she  saw  that  something 
was  amusing  him.  Was  tiiis  l)oyish  face  with  the 
laughing  eyes  the  same  grave  one  with  which  she 
was  familiar?  It  was  at  least  one  of  his  bovish 
moments,  when  the  burden  of  w  ork  was  forgotten. 


'i  i 


•!li 


1 


Ji 


f 


80 


Ck'<>\v.\i:i)    .1  -/•    i.i.iM. 


and  he  woiiM  liavi-  enjoyed  notlnii;,'  In-ltcr  t!i.-iii  to 
lu'lp  !kt  ill  her  task  niid  he  ordered  al.out  I.v  licr 
as  he  had  seen  her  order  tlie  hoys,  when  she  was 
(jueenin^j:  it  thereon  top  of  the  pyrarnich  Hut  sueh 
aetions  woidd  not  he  seendy  in  tlie  minister  ol"  tiie 
kirk,  so  he  tnrned  to  tht-  matter  he  had  in  hand. 

"Mistress  Cairns  ted^  me  that  you  are  K"'"K  to 
see  them  tins  afternoon.  Miss  Trema." 

"So  I  i)r()nnsed,  hut  father  is  (juite  ill  this  morn- 
ing.    He  got  wet  yesterday  eonnng  from  Hrantford." 

"Yes,  I  wassorr  •  to  hear  from  Thomas  that  he 
was  su fieri ng  from  a  relapse  of  his  eold.  Hut  I  am 
going  to  Clreenvale  this  aften.oon,  and  as  I  ])ass 
Willow  Haidv  I  eould  take  vou  if  vou  wish  to  "o  " 

"Oh,  thaids-  you!"  Trema  cxelaimed  delightedlv. 
"Come  in  and  see  mother  ahout  it."  So  it  was 
satisfaetorily  arranged,  and  at  three  o'cloek  thev 
set  off. 

It  was  a  delightful  day  for  driving  and  Trcma's 
faee  was  all  aglow  as  she  told  the  nirnister  that  it 
was  her  first  sleigh  ride  in  the  eountry. 

"Then  I  hope  it  will  he  a  pleasarit  one,"  he  re- 
plied; "for  you  do  not  have  much  to  vary  the  mon- 
otony of  your  life  here,  Vou  must  find  the  eountrv 
a  very  great  change  from  the  city.  I  sui)i)ose  you 
prefer  the  town  to  this  ([uiet  eountry  life  " 

'Oh,  I  have  not  grown  tired  of  the  country  vet," 
she  replied.  "It  is  all  so  new  to  me.  I  hive  the 
woods.  I  love  to  sit  under  the  trees  and  watch  the 
shadows  on  the  g-ass,  when  the  leaves  whisper 
strange  stories,  and  w  here  nothing  hut  the  streamlet 
seems  to  l)e  in  a  hurry.  It  is  delightful.  I?ut  I 
do  miss  my  city  friends.      There  was   my  venerable 


(■A'"ir.v/;/;    i  r 


i:i.i\t. 


81 


rroffssorwlio  \v;is  our  nci-lilM.r,  and  ^'.-ivc-  iiic  the  lull 
frtcdoiu  (,("  liis  liliiary.     Oluii  w  lieu  lie  icturmd  from 


Iccturi's,  Ik-  would  find  uic  curled  up  in  his  favcuitc 
chair  and  poring'  over  sonic  dusty  tonic,  which  he 
wc'ld  aver  was  too  dry  for  any  but  siHctaclcd 
pc(.j,.  •  to  read.  Vcs,  I  miss  him  and  thei'tlicr  cilv 
friends  verv  much." 


Hut 


y(ui  seem  to  ciijoy  youi  .elf  liere.       Vou  like 


visiting  at  Willow  Bank,  do  you  not?" 
"Oh,  I  cannot  tell  vou  how  I  love  t( 


ro  there. 


I 


should  Ite  verv  lonelv 


if  it 


familv 


were   not   for  the  Cairns 


.\iid    the   other   farms    where 


vou    often    LTO  to 


si)ciid  tlie  al'terno()n,  wiiat  ahout  them? 


tl 


Well,  to  tell  tlie  trutli,  'spending;  the  aft 


crnooii. 


lough  It  sounds  pleasant  cnou;^'h,  is  the  greatest 
bore  I  have,  and  yet  the  people  are  so  kind.  When 
they  invite  you  to  go  for  ilie  afternoon,  tliev  expect 
you  to  be  there  at    three   o'clock.      If  v 


foiir  the  hostess  will  cxcl, 


hat 


you    arrive   at 
lim,  as  she  lavs  awav  vour 


and    parasol,    that   she  certainlv    thou-ht 


vou 


ou   to   sit   ill 


were  not  ccmiing.     Then  she  will  invite  v 

a  rocker  ill  the  dining  room    while  she  bustles  awav 

to    tiiiish    her    work    in    the   kitchen;    for  tliev  do  so 

much  work    in    a   day— tl 

daughter  of  tlie  house  is  also  busv 


lese   country-    people.      The 
vou  see  her  Hit- 


ting  about  i     the  kitchen    and   she  just  giv 


es  vou  a 


smile  now  and  then    as   she    passes   the   door.      V« 


)U 


look 


w 


istfully  out   at    the  cool  depths  of  tin 


H'ove, 


but  the  daughter  is  too  busy  for  you  to  suggest  such 


an  unheard  of  thing  as  a  walk  there.     Afi.er 


:i  while. 


she  does  come  in  and    talk    for  a  littl 


e,  and  then  she 


brings  a  iihotograph   album   from    the    parlor— for 


m 


N'! 


i 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANbi  and   IjO    TES;   char  I   N^     2 


1.0 


I.I 


■^  |M   IIIIM 

1^  ilM     111112.2 


i. 


36 
40 


2.0 


1.8 


1.25 


1.4 


1.6 


^  /APPLIED  IM/IGE     Inc 

^^  ':^5   East    Man   Street 

r^  -  jcnester.  New   Tor*        U60'"*       'iSA 

■^=  '16/   *82  -  0300  -  Phone 

:^  ■■  1 6^    288  -  S969  ~  Fa« 


82 


CROWXr-l)     AT     ELIM. 


there  is  a  parlor — to  entertain  yon  while  she  is  get- 
tiug  supper  ready.  And  sueh  a  supper!  Cold  fowl 
and  fried  pt)tatoes,  and  hot  biseuits,  and  fresh  butter 
and  honey,  ami  pies — two  kinds  at  least— and  cakes, 
sueh  a  (piantity  of  them;  more  dainties  than  one 
eould  think  of  attempting  to  eat  in  a  week.  And 
then  when  supi)er  is  over,  yon  think  now  you  will 
see  your  hostess  and  her  daughter  for  a  little,  but 
again  you  are  disappointed.  Vou  are  shown  into 
the  parlor,  a  little  bo.x  affair  containing  three  chairs, 
a  center  table  and  melodian.  The  wvn  are  going  to 
have  supper  and  the  mother  and  daughter  must  wait 
on  them.  So  you  sit  in  state  in  the  little  parlor, 
gazing  at  the  pictures  on  the  wall  and  do  not  even 
get  a  glimpse  of  the  father  and  big  brothers,  not  to 
mention  the  hired  man.  You  study  the  pictures  for 
a  long  ha'f  hour,  but  you  are  rewarded  at  last.  The 
daughter  comes  and  sits  with  you  in  the  gloaming 
and  asks  3'ou  about  the  city — that  wonderful  i)lace 
which  idle  has  never  yet  s.-en — and  about  St.  Peters- 
burg which  seems  so  unreal  to  her.  Then  the  big 
brothers  come  in  with  clean  collars,  polished  faces 
and  smoothed  plumage.  A  game  of  croquet  is  sug- 
gested, and  to  the  garden  we  go.  Partners  and 
colors  are  chosen,  and  then  for  a  happy  hour  there  is 
the  constant  sharp  click  as  the  nudlet  strikes  the 
ball;  the  peal  of  laughter  when  an  opponent  has 
been  vancjuished ;  the  exclamation  of  woe  from  the 
vanquished  one;  and,  in  the  intervals  of  silence,  the 
ceaseless  argument  of  the  katydids,  the  clang  of  a 
distant  cow-bell  and  the  song  of  the  wliip-poor-will. 
Taken  altogether,  that  hour  in  the  twilight  makes 
up  ioi-  the  martyrdom  of  the  afternoon." 


r> 


C  h' O  \V  X  i:  D     .\T     ELIM. 


83 


The  minister  smiled  at  the  recital.  It  was  so 
hke  his  own  earl_v  exi)erienccs  in  Riverside.  "You 
will  have  to  do  as  I  do,"  he  said  ;  "  make  these  good 
peoi)le  understand  that  you  cannot  come  till  the 
stroke  of  six.  If  you  are  determined  they  become 
accustomed  to  it  and  do  not  mind." 

"Oh,  I  never  thought  of  introducing  city  ways 
into  tlie  country.  You  are  he  minister  and  a  law 
unto  yourself.  I  am  only  a  girl;  they  would  not 
tolerate  any  innovations  from  me." 

For  a  ti:nf  they  drove  along  in  silence.  The 
lan.'scaioe  was  so  fair  with  all  that  wide  expanse  of 
s{)oiless  wliite,  onl^'  broken  here  and  there  by  a 
stump  piled  high  with  a  rounded  cap  of  snow,  while 
beyond  the  fields,  the  woods  stretched  out — immacu- 
late, silent,  beautiful.  The  dreamy  landscape  im- 
pressed the  minister  with  a  sense  of  rei)ose,  and  a 
sense  of  repose  was  very  agreeable  after  the  night  of 
anxiety  tlirough  which  he  had  passed,  though  the 
weight  had  been  somewhat  lifted  from  his  heart,  for 
he  had  that  morning  seen  LcN'den,  and  the  bo^'  was 
so  penitent  and  Mrs.  Bell  so  cheerful,  that  he  too 
felt  ho])c'ful,  and  though  he  knew  that  long  historv 
which  the  mother  did  not  know,  yet  already  the 
events  of  the  ])ast  night  seemed  a  horrid  dream,  and 
Leyden  was  a  boy  to  be  trusted  once  more.  He 
was  l)rought  back  from  his  contemplation  of  the 
restful  picture  by  a  tremulous  little  sigh  of  content. 

"  Then  you  like  nature,  too,"  he  said,  seeing  that 
she  was  feasting  her  eyes  on  the  scene.  "It  is  my 
com])anion  when  all  other  friends  fail." 

"When  all  other  friends  fail!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Why,  your  whole  congregation  adores  you.      They 


'   ! 


8+ 


CROWXI^D     AT     ELIM. 


nrc  ])errc,.-t  devotees,  in  fact,  and  burn  incense  to  _vou 
tile  live-Min;^  dav." 

He  smllcvl  at  tlie  ])ai^an  meta])h()r,  but  did  not 
at  once  rcjily.     At  last  be  said  : 

"  While  it  is  a  blessed  i)rivilege  to  leed  this  little 
tlock.vet  it  is  jjossiblc  tliat  tlie  shei)herd  may  hunger, 
too,  r.)r  lunnan  synipath\'." 

Trenia  did  not  re])ly.  There  was  nothing  to  say 
in  r  i,s\ver  to  those  words  uttered  so  sini])ly,  yet  un- 
consciously disclosing  so  much.  The  pathos  of  them 
touched  her  heart,  and  revealed  a  new  phase  in  the 
character  of  this  friend.  She  saw  a  strong  soul,  who 
was  giving  his  life's  l)est  efforts,  his  strength,  his 
energy,  his  love,  his  holiness,  u.ireservedly  to  his 
])eople.  while  he  himself  was  starving  in  loneliness  for 
a  word  of  sympathy  in  retuiti.  As  Trema  had  said, 
his  congregation  adored  him,3'et  they  scarcely  under- 
stood him  They  felt  his  power,  but  were  imcon- 
scious  frcHU  whence  that  power  came.  They  knew 
he  comforted  them,  but  it  seemed  part  of  the  office 
of  a  j)astor  to  comfort  his  people  in  affliction.  That 
he  had  any  troubles  of  his  own  in  which  their  sym- 
pathy would  have  helped  him,  they  did  not  realize; 
that  in  his  busy  life  it  was  yet  possible  for  him  to 
live  in  lonely  isolation,  they  could  not  even  have 
conceived. 

The  young  minister's  eves  came  back  from  stud^'- 
ing  the  snow-covered  fields,  to  which  they  had  again 
reverted,  and  rested  with  a  lingering  wistfulness  on 
the  face  beside  him  and  then  he  looked  away  with 
eyes  filled  with  a  sudden  joy,  for  in  the  gleam  of  her 
fervent  eyes,  in  the  si)eakingelociuence  of  herthought- 
ful  face,  he  read  that  she  understood  him  as  well  as 


^\ 


CROWXIH)     AT     HLIM. 


85 


if  he  had  told  her  all  his  story.  Though  in  his  heart 
joybells  were  chiming  ci  new  sweet  tune,  yet  he  did 
not  continu"  the  subject  which  .seemed  to  have  cast  a 
shadow  on  her  bright  spirits,  and  for  the  remainder 
of  their  drive  he  was  gay  and  witty,  surprising  his 
young  friend  with  his  fund  of  mirth  and  by  his  sharp 
repartee. 


•Ill 

•  i  'I 


n 


II 


.  i 


1  .. 
i 


!)■ 


86 


CROW  Si:  I)     AT    ELIM. 


CHAPTER     VIII. 

WHEN  David  McGlashan  returned  from  Green- 
vale,  he  went  ill  to  see  ho\v(\'isiinir  Zanioyski 
was.  He  found  him  very  ill  but  feeling  in- 
clined to  sleep,  so  he  did  not  remain  long  in  the  siek 
room,  but  went  to  the  drawing  room  with  Madame 
Zaraoyski  to  see  some  new  music  which  had  just 
arrived  from  Toronto  for  Trema.  David  McGlashan 
was  very  u)nd  of  music.  His  piano  was  the  first 
brought  into  the  settlement,  and  its  arrival  had  been 
an  event  of  iini)ortance.  Its  progress  through  the 
village  had  l)een  heralded  by  a  gathering  of  smtill 
boys,  who  were  very  curious  to  know  what  such  a 
great  box  contained. 

"Perhaps  it  is  filled  with  i)ikes  sent  over  by  the 
Fenians,  who  will  murder  us  all  in  t)ur  beds  some 
night." 

"Pikes,  your  grandmother!  Nice  things  they 
would  be  to  send  tt)  the  minister's  house.  It's  more 
likely  to  be  cannon  to  shoot  the  Fenians  with." 

"  What  would  they  want  to  shut  cannon  up  in  a 
box  like  that  for?  Cannon  won't  break.  Now,  I 
think  it  is  the  skeleton  of  some  big  animal— a  fossil, 
you  know.  The  minister  is  awful  interested  in 
them  things." 

"  Well,  maybe  it  is  a  skeleton,"  said  a  fourth  boy, 


k'^ 


CROWXnn     AT     EI.IM 


"Init  I  tliink  it  is  pictures,  tliout^h  they  would  have 
to  be  ])retty  h'v^  ones  to  fill  a  box  hke  tliat." 

But  notwithstanding  ilieir  curiosity,  when  the 
box  arrived  at  its  destination  not  one  of  the  bovs 
would  go  near  it,  antl  when  the  minister  came  out 
and  asked  if  they  would  help  lift  it  olT  the  wagon, 
they  turned  on  thei-  heels  ati<l  iled.  The  gardener 
went  to  his  assist  nice,  but  the  box  still  proved  too 
much  for  th",:i;  so  Mr.  McCMashan,  seeing  one  of 
liis  elders  passing,  called,  "  Mr.  Carruth,  won't  you 
I)lease  come  and  helj)  us  with  this  piano?  " 

"An'  whatever  dae  ye  want  wi'  a  piano  ?  "  asked 
Matthew,  when  he  had  surveyed  the  monstrous  box. 

"To  ])lay  on;  to  make  lonely  moments  a  little 
less  lonely." 

"Less  lonely!  Ma  guid  man,  on  the  few  occa- 
sions in  ma  life  that  I  hae  been  treated  tae  an  exhi- 
beetion  o'  instrumental  music,  I  hae  hcrtily  wushed 
niasel' in  the  next  concession.  I  mind  what  Charles 
Lamb  said  aboot  it,  an'  I  fully  sympathize  wi'  him  : 
'Tae  be  exposed  tae  an  endless  battery  o'  mere 
soonds;  tae  be  lang  a-deein';  tae  lie  stretched  upon 
a  rack  o'  roses,  tae  gaze  on  toom  ])icturc  frames  an' 
be  forced  tae  mak  up  the  pictures  for  yersel',  tae  read 
a  buik  a'  stops,  an'  1)e  obleeged  tae  supply  the  verl^al 
matter.'  That's  juist  what  I  hae  endured  whan 
listenin'  tae  instrumental  music.  Ikit  tae  be  sure 
I'll  gie  ye  a  haund  wi'  the  box." 

The  piano  was  an  old  story  by  this  time,  however, 
for  several  others  had  since  been  brought  into  the 
district.  But  a  new  pleasure  was  added  to  the 
minister's  life  when  he  fountl  that  he  had  for  neigh- 
bors such  musical  i)eople  as  the  Zamovskis.      So  he 


!  'i 


,'i ' 


P] 


ss 


c R(>\\\!:n    .1 7"    i: i.iM. 


looked  over  the  nnisic  with  interest,  aiul  presently  he 
and  Madame  Zainoyski  were  in  tlie  midst  of  an 
anitnated  disenssion  n-i^ardin^^  the  diflerences  be- 
tween "absolute"  and  "  j)ro<;ram  "  or  descriptive 
nitjsie. 

"  My  dear  Madame  Zamoyski,"  said  Mr.  Mc- 
(Uashan,  "you  have  just  stated  that  in  music  there 
is  an  absence  of  definite  outline,  which  may  cause  a 
musical  composition  to  mean  soinethin<j^  different  to 
every  hearer,  but  nii^^dit  that  not  be  said  of  a  i)oem, 
or  a  book,  or  a  jjicture?  Is  /irn-  art  simi)ly  a  repro- 
duction of  actual  fact?  Take  this  old  i)ortrait  which 
I  see  before  me.  It  is  the  i)icture  of  a  handsome 
nobleman  ap]iarelled  in  white  satin.  The  orders  on 
his  l)reast  and  rajjier  at  his  side  arc  partiallv  con- 
cealed by  a  lonj?  crimson  velvet  mantle.  It  is  a  fine 
picture,  and  yet  I  very  much  doubt  if  his  friends  ever 
saw  him  look  just  exactly  like  that.  For  the  artist 
would  not  paint  him  as  he  looked  at  any  given 
moment,  but  would  study  the  dififcrent  traits  of  his 
character,  the  changing  expressions  of  his  face,  and 
then  make  a  sort  of  composite  ])icture,  giving  jiromi- 
ncncc  to  the  most  cons])icuous  traits  and  indicatiuf 
others  more  delicately.  Yet  he  has  evidently  suc- 
ceeded in  retaining  a  good  likeness,  for  I  see  in  the 
face  a  strong  resemblance  to  your  husband.  I  should 
say  that  it  is  a  picture  of  his  father." 

"  No,  it  is  a  picture  of  Casimir's  grandfather,  but 
the  resemblance  is  most  marked.  I  was  much  im- 
jiressed  with  the  similarity  between  the  two  when  I 
first  saw  the  portrait  hanging  in  the  drawing-room 
at  Stroganoft'  Palace." 

"And  I  suppose  Mr.  Zamoyski  would  find  much 


»'> 


CR()\V\i:ii     AT     LLIM. 


89 
who  it  was 


anniscTncnt  in  trviiiLj  to  make  you  j^ut-ss 
a  portrait  ot." 

"Casiiuir?  Oh,  he  was  not  tliorc ;  lie  was  in 
Paris." 

"  Indeed  I" 

Tlie  expression  on  the  ttiinister's  faee,  more  than 
the  exchimatory  word,  showed  uneoneealed  euriositv. 
lie  was  niueh  interested  in  t'.ie  Zatnoyskis,  the  more 
so,  no  doubt,  beeanse  si)  Httle  was  known  re;4ardin<^ 
them.  Casimir  Z.amoyski,  though  the  most  enter- 
taininjj;  of  eonversation^dists,  had  never  in  llie  min- 
ister's presence  made  a  sin^de  reference  to  his  early 
life.  And  though  David  McCdashan  had  no  desire  to 
pry  into  matters  which  did  not  concern  him,  vet  he 
did  feel  that  it  wcnild  lie  pleasanter  if  lie  knew  a 
little  more  about  these  new  friends.  And  to-day 
there  was  a  deeper  reason,  scarcely  anrdyzcd  as  yet, 
which  made  any  tliin.Lj  that  concerned  Trema  even  in 
the  remotest  way,  of  intense  interest  to  him.  So  he 
waited  almost  breathlessh-,  hoping  that  Madame 
Zamoyski  would  tell  him  something  further.  He  was 
not  disappointed,  for  after  a  brief  jjause  she  said  : 

"  In  fact,  Mr.  McOlashan,  my  husband  did  not 
accomp;iny  nu,  becan.-c  he  had  incurred  the  disjilca- 
sure  of  tlic  Czir  an  1  also  (.f  his  step-father.  Count 
StrogantjfT,  and  dare  not  return  to  Russia  tliough  it 
was  his  birthphicc.  We  had  been  living  in  Paris, 
Casimir  and  I,  but  he  took  seriously  ill,  so  that  we 
were  very  poor.  One  day,  however,  my  husband's 
friend,  Prince  Adam  C/.artoryski,  came,  and  we  de- 
cided that  it  would  be  best  for  me  to  go  to  St. 
Petersl)urg  and  secure  a  personal  interview  with 
the  Czar,  when  perluips  he  would  excuse  Casimir 's 


•I    :1 


!m 


IM 


r  ii^ 


00 


Ch'i>\\'.\i:n   AT   F.i.iM. 


olTciu'c      Priticc  Aflaiii  took  Casiuiir  liotnc  with  liiin 
to  liis  cluUcau  .'it  Moiitl'c'riiiit.'I,  till   I  should  i\luni." 

"And   did    you    really    uiidcrtaki'    such     a    long 
jounu'v  aloiK'  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  started  out  bravely,  l)Ut  I  sliall  never 
for^^et  the  moment  when  I  stood  on  the  marble  ste;)s 
before  the  inipo.^ing  entrance  to  StrotjanotY  Palace — 
Casimir's  old  home — feariiiLj  to  ring  for  admittance. 
Had  I  dared,  I  would  have  turned  and  tied  from  t!ie 
place.  But  I  imagined  how  Casimir  and  tlie  Prince 
would  laugli,  should  I  return  to  P.aris  witliout  even 
seeing  the  Coiuitess  Stroganoff.  That  thought  de- 
cided me;  I  tm-ncd  at  once  and  rang  the  bell.  It  was 
answered  I)y  a  functionaiy  in  livery.  T  remembered 
that  I  was  to  speak  in  French,  and  asked  the  man  in 
rather  halting  ])hrases  if  I  might  see  the  Coimtess 
StroganotT.  I  was  shown  into  the  salon,  and  siidc- 
ing  into  a  chair,  I  waited  what  seemed  to  me  an 
interminable  time  before  I  heard  tlie  rustle  of  a  sillcen 
gown,  and  Countess  StroganotT glided  into  the  room. 
She  was  tall  ami  slender,  and  a  dainty  head-dress  of 
ex(|uisite  lace  rested  on  lier  snf)w-white  hair.  She 
still  held  my  card  in  her  delicate  fingers.  As  she  did 
not  offer  to  sit  down,  I  rose  at  once. 

"'Madame  Zamoyski,  I  ])elieve,'  the  Countess 
said,  glancing  at  the  card,  then  fixing  lier  1)lue  eyes 
intently  on  me  she  waited  for  me  to  s])eak.  I  was 
very  nervous,  thougli  I  managed  to  mal<e  lier  under- 
stand that  I  was  her  son's  wife.  When  I  told  her, 
however,  that  I  was  an  English  mercliant's  daughter, 
she  became  very  angrv  and  sanl  that  tlie  Zamoyskis 
iiad  not  been  wont  t)  mix  witli  trades;)eo])!e.  I  t  )iil 
her  that  I  had  married  her  son  against  mv  father's 


1^ 


CR'n]\-M:i)     AT     l:  1. 1 M . 


91 


wishes;  that  Ik- did  not  lliink  Casimir  ^jjood  criDiigh 
for  a  soil  ill-law.  'Your  I'alhcr  must  have  been  a 
verv  i-;ii(ir;nit  person,'  she  repHed  eoldly.  'My  son 
iias  f()r>;;ikcu  the  ways  of  his  fathers.'  She  ^hinced 
as  she  spoke  to  lier  fallier's  portrait,  the  pietiire  we 
liave  just  l)een  dlseussiiig.  As  I  h)oked  at  it  I  iiotieed 
that,  notwithstaiidiiiic  the  pride  of  the  patrician 
countenance,  there  was  in  many  points  a  stronp'  rc- 
senil)K'nice  to  the  face  of  my  dear  husband.  Do  you 
wonder  that  I  sliould  rcniemher  the  occasion  of  my 
first  seeing  it  so  vividly  ?  " 

"And  what  did  you  tell  lier?"aske(l  the  minister, 
smiling.  "That  in  forsaking  the  ways  of  his  fathers, 
he  had  prolial'ly  cliosen  a  better  path  ?  " 

"Oh  no,  I  hired  not  tell  her  that.  You  have  no 
idea  wiUi  what  an  awe  her  Grace  impressed  me. 
And,  indeed,  slie  did  not  give  me  a  chance  to  re})ly, 
for  she  went  right  on  saying  that  lier  eldest  son  liad 
been  a  grievous  disappointment  to  her;  that  while 
at  home  he  had  been  so  easy  going  that  he  had 
allowed  Ivan,  his  younger  brother,  to  take  precedence 
in  all  things;  at  the  university  he  had  foolishly  taken 
part  in  a  rising  which  he  knew  tjuite  well  could  not 
succeed.  Tlien  she  had  lieen  looking  forward  to  his 
being  reinstated  in  society  through  a  grand  matri- 
monial alliance;  that  now  to  hear  of  his  marriage 
was  the  bitterest  disappointment  of  all.  Then  she 
wanted  to  know  why  I  had  come  to  her. 

"  It  was  a  dreadful  predicament,  Mr.  McGlashan. 
It  seemed  such  in-ii)ertinence  to  tell  her  that  we  had 
purposed  coming  to  live  at  Stroganoflf  Palace,  when 
I  had  not  even  been  requested  to  sit   down. 

"'Casimir  is  ill,'  I  answered   hesitatingly;  'and 


V    :ll 


fl 


02 


Ci?oir.v/;/>    AT   i:i.!.\f. 


Wf  tli()u;^'lit— tli.it  is,  I'rim-c  Ailain  Czartoryski  .-iiid 
I— that  it'  he  were  able  to  come  to  St.  lVtt.rsI)iif;.; 
and  for  a  lime  have  a  eonii)lete  rest,  free  from  all 
the  anxieties  of  life,  th.it  he  would  j^jroA-  slron;,aT. 
i?ut  iiiiikr  the  C/.ar's  eiliet  he  eamiot  r.tnrii.  So 
we  thou;j;ht  tliat  if  some  one  were  to  see  the  Czar 
persoiMiiy.  that  he  niij^ht  relent  and  allow  Casiinir 
to  eome  home.  And  there  seemed  to  he  no  one  wiio 
could  come  except  me.' 

"'Is  my  son,  then,  so  destitute  of  frien  is,' said 
the  Countess,  '  that  he  had  no  one  to  plead  his  cause 
beff)re  His  Imperial  Majesty  but  a  tradesman's 
daughter  i^  ' 

"  '  Vou  for;.;et,  Mailame.'  I  exclaimed,  hau<^htily, 
'that  I  am  Casimir  Zamoyski's  wife.' 

"  ■  Alas,'  she  replied, '  I  must  remember  it  now  for 
the  remainder  of  my  life.  But  since  you  have  come 
on  such  a  mission,  pray  be  seated.' 

"  I  stood  frii^idly  erect  for  the  space  of  a  moment 
and  then  sat  down.  I  was  sorely  tempted  to  turn 
my  back  upon  the  Countess  and  leave  her  jjrcsence 
forever;  but  for  Casimir's  sake  I  was  obliged  to 
conquer  my  ])riile  and  st;iy. 

"  '  Vou  say.'  said  the  Countess,  when  I  had  taken 
a  seat,  'that  Casimir  has  been  ill.  What  was  the 
trouble? ' 

"'A  slow  fever,  brought  on  by  overwork  and 
worry.' 

"  .\  swift  wave  of  color  mantled  the  face  of  the 
Countess  at  my  words.  Her  eyes  strayed  over  the 
inlaid  floor,  partly  covered  with  a  Persian  carf)et ; 
over  the  tables  of  marcjueterie,  onyx  and  orninln, 
on  which  many  elegant  tritles  were  placed  ;  over  the 


l'> 


lA'nir.V/iD    AT    ELIM. 


'X\ 


valuable  ]>iituics  wliicli  ilccoratcd  the  walls;  over 
the  statuary  and  all  the  c\  i  knees  of  weaUli  in  tliat 
sumptuous  apaitmeiit,  aul  she  sighed.  1  knew  she 
\v  IS  thinking  tliat  wiiilc  she  was  siirrountled  by  all 
this  cleganec  lier  eldest  son  was  dying  of  over.voik. 

"•  \ou  must  l)e  weary,'  she  said  al  length,  and  I 
was  surprised  at  tlie  S\veetnes>  of  ihe  tone.  '  .Mlow 
me  to  show  you  to  the  room  whieh  will  now  he 
vours.  It  wasCasimir's  '-  )om  when  he  was  at  home 
and  I  have  never  allowed  any  one  to  oeeupy  it  since 
he  went  away.  V>»u  will  h.ive  an  hour  to  rest  before 
dressing  for  dinner.  It  was  fortunate  you  found  us 
in  town,  as  we  are  always  at  the  Islands  in  summer; 
buttheeity  will  be  the  seene  of  many  festivities  for 
the  next  few  days,  as  the  ("iiand  Duchess  Olga  is  to 
be  married  on  the  14-th.  You  will  see  the  Czar  then, 
.and  vou  will  be  able  to  form  some  idea  of  what  he  is 
like.'  When  we  had  gone  up  stairs,  she  said  :  'This 
is  your  room;  I  shall  send  my  maid  to  you  when  it  is 
time  to  dress.  You  will  meet  Count  StroganotT  at 
dinner,  as  well  as  <nir  son  Ivan  and  his  wife,  who 
dine  with  us  to-night.'" 

"And  how  did  you  like  the  others?"  asked  the 
minister.  "Was  Count  StroganotT  as  haughty  as 
his  wife  ?  " 

"  He  said  so  little  to  me  that  I  was  a  long  time 
forming  any  opinion  regarding  him.  Ivan  was  a 
handsome,  dasliing  fellow,  with  never  a  serious 
thouglit  in  his  head,  however.  His  wife,  Madame 
la  PriuL-css  (Catherine,  they  called  her)  was  reserved 
and  cold,  atul  evidently  held  me  mentally  at  arm's 
length,  as  if  I  were  not  of  their  caste.  But  I  soon 
met  lots  like  Madame  la  Princess.      I  was  plunged 


ill 


i 


O-l. 


C"  A' '  > 


:i:i)    AT   i:lim. 


at  once  amou;^^  <rrcal  folk.  Tlic  ciiy  tliat  week 
was  filled  with  dist-n^u^uishecl  personages,  and  their 
presence  lent  additional  lustre  to  the  grand  military 
review,  which  was  held  a  few  days  after  I  arrived. 
The  Ministers  and  Envoys  Extraordinary,  the  Pleni- 
potentiaries  and  other  high  dignitaries  appeared  in 
gorgeous  dress.  I  drove  to  the  review  in  the  Stro- 
ganoff  carriage,  which  was  a  very  luxurious  one 
drawn  by  four  horses.  The  glittering  l.cjst  was  a 
sight  to  see.  ])ut  I  was  looking  for  one  person. 

"  '  Is  that  Hislinj)erird  Majesty?  '  I  asked  eagerly, 
as  I  saw  the  people  bowing  and  doffing  their  hats  to 
a  personage  in  the  procession.  .\nd  then,  forgetting 
that  he  was  within  ea-shot  and  niigh,  overhear  me, 
I  thoug.,aessly  added,  '  He  is  the  handsomest  man  I 
have  seen  since  I  came  to  St.  Petersburg  ' 

"  Hush,' whispered  the  Countess;  'he  will  hear 
you';  and  the  other  occupants  of  the  carriage  Icjoked 
at  me  in  displeased  surprise.  I  saw  that  I  had 
thoughtlessly  committed  a  grave  offence,  and  to  add 
to  my  confusion,  the  Emperor  turned  his  head  and 
looked  directly  at  me.  I  had  spoken  in  English. 
Could  it  be  possil)le  that  he  had  overheard?  When 
the  Czar  and  his  guard  of  honor  had  passed,  Madame 
la  Princess  turned  to  me  and  said,  with  curled  lip: 

'"Is  it  customary  in  your  country  to  ])ass  re- 
marks about  your  sovereigns  in  their  presence?  ' 

'"I  spoke  in  English;  it  is  doubtful  if  he  under- 
stood me.'  I  answered,  carelessly,  'and  if  he  did, 
it  was  no  great  crime  to  say  he  is  handsome.' 

'"Vou  forget  you  are  speaking  about  the  Czar. 
No  one  in  all  Russia  would  have  had  the  effrontery 
to  sav  what  vou  did.' 


I'' 


CRowxEF)   .\T   i:lim. 


95 


"'Then  I  hold  the  uiiiciue  jjosition  of  being  ("  i- 
ferent  from  eij^hty  millions  ot"  ])coi)le.' 

" '  "^'ou  hold  tlie  uni(ine  jjosition  ot"  being  the 
target  f(jr  the  Czar's  disijknsure.  I  d(j  not  suppose 
3'our  olTenee  merits  a  sojourn  in  Siberia,  but  a.iy 
favor  YOU  are  looking  forward  to  reeeiving  from  His 
Majesty  is  doomed.' 

"So,  despite  my  indifferent  manner,  I  was  very 
uneasy;  and  to  make  matters  worse,  the  Coimtess 
again  reverted  to  the  subjcet  on  our  return  home; 
saying  how  ver\'  rude  it  was  to  pass  such  remarks 
in  the  presence  of  royalty,  and  confirming  Catherine's 
opinion  that  the  unfortunate  remark  would  injure 
my  cause." 

"  .\nd  did  you  speak  to  the  Czar?  " 

"Oh,  3'es,  I  must  tell  3'ou  about  it.  On  the  even- 
ing of  the  wedding  there  was  a  grand  ball  given  by 
theEmporer  at  Michael  Palace.  In  one  of  the  salons 
opening  from  the  ])all  room,  foreign  diplomats  and 
other  distinguished  persons  were  being  presented 
to  their  Imperial  Majesties  by  the  grand  master  of 
Court  ceremonies.  The  reproof  of  the  Countess  had 
left  me  in  a  state  of  nervous  dread.  I  trembled  in 
anticipation  of  the  ordeal  of  being  presented.  At 
last  my  turn  came.  How  I  accpiitted  myself  I  do 
not  know.  I  have  a  confused  recollection  of  glancing 
up  for  a  moment  at  the  noble,  haughty  face  of  the 
Kmi^orer,  which  yet  I  fancied  looked  at  me  not  un- 
kindly. Of  the  Empress,  try  impression  is  even  more 
vague.  Her  Majesty  spoke  a  few  gracious  words  to 
me,  and  her  sweet  gentle  manner  helped  somewhat 
to  restore  my  composure,  .\fter  the  ordeal  was  over 
I  looked  up  at  the  Countess,  w'm)  \  as  by  my  side, 


I    , 


,\  il 


'JC 


Chu)  \y.\i:i)    A  T    i:i.i M . 


and  was  rewarded  witli  a  smile.  I'' llicrc  had  1>eeii 
an_vthin^  amiss  in  my  manner  it  had  escaped  those 
critical  eves.  We  passed  with  the  imp()sin^^  _L,ditter- 
in^  tb.ron;.^  to  the  ball  room,  where  we  saw  at  some 
distance  Catherine  eii<j;aj,a'd  in  conversation  with 
Prince  Dol^orouki.  After  we  had  been  introduced, 
he  re(]ue'>tc  1  the  favor  of  the  next  waltz.  I  was 
almost  afraid  to  dance  with  a  real  live  prince,  l)iit 
when  the  strains  of  the  orchestra  were  heard  we 
<j:lided  down  the  lenj^thy  <j:allery.  On,  on,  we  swept 
into  that  fairy  world  of  gav  costumes,  flowers  and 
troi)ical  plants.  It  was  my  first  1  all,  for  I  married 
befxre  I  was  old  enough  to  go  into  society,  and  for 
a  time  the  splendor  and  novelty  thrilled  me  with 
pleasure.  But  when  I  thought  of  Casimir  and  of 
the  task  I  had  still  to  perform,  thf^  dance  lost  its 
novelty  and  the  evening  was  stripped  ofits  splendf^r. 
"When  the  waltz  was  over,  I  slijjped  av/ay  alone 
to  an  artificial  grove  of  palm,  banana,  and  orange 
trees.  The  lights,  the  music,  the  giddy  crowd  had 
become  wearying.  There  the  air  was  cool  with  the 
spray  of  fountains.  A  few  steps  further  brought  me 
to  a  delightful  retreat.  It  was  a  miniature  ])avili()n 
])artly  formed  of  glass.  The  view  from  the  window 
was  in  marked  contrast  to  the  scene  within.  The 
moonlight,  in  that  northern  latitude  so  clear  and  so 
brilliant,  lighted  up  the  many  domes  of  St.  Peters- 
])urg  and  turned  the  Neva  into  a  sheet  of  molten 
silver.  For  some  moments  I  stood  gazing  in  wonder 
at  the  magic  light.  Then  someone  approached  and 
stood  beside  me,  but  I  was  so  engrossed  with  the 
scene  that  for  a  moment  I  did  not  look  uj),  and  v.hen 
I  did  so  I  was  amazed  to  find  the  Emporer  standing 


|V 


c'A'oir.v/;/;     xr   i:i.i\f. 


97 


')csI(kMiic.  I  welconitnl  him  with  a  smile  of  recogni- 
tion, and  a,<;ain  my  eyes  reverted  to  the  window. 
We  did  not  speak.  It  seemed  that  any  sound,  how- 
c.ersHght,  would  mar  that  magic  spell.  I  did  not 
seem  to  realize  that  I  was  standing  in  the  presence  of 
the  monarch  oi  all  the  Rnssias.  My  former  fear 
of  liim  was  gone.  For  some  indefinable  reason,  it 
seemed  that  the  Emi)eror.  the  imperious  monarch, 
the  haughty  autocrat,  had  remained  in  the  reception 
room,  and  that  the  person  who  stood  beside  me  was 
endowed  with  human  feelings  like  myself,  and  had  a 
heart  also  alive  to  the  beauties  of  that  Polar  night. 
When  I  should  tell  that  monarch  out  in  the  rccepticm 
roorii  abi)Ut  Casimir  and  ask  pardon  for  his  offence, 
there  would  have  to  be  an  interi)reter  and  a  k)t  of 
ceremonies;  but  I  might  tell  this  person  who  was 
looking  out  on  the  Neva  all  about  our  trouble  and 
he  would  understand.  With  my  mind  filled  with 
these  thoughts  I  looketl  up  (juestioningly  into  his 
face.     His  lips  parted  in  a  soft  grave  smile  as  he  said 


in  English  : 


Do 


"  '  Vou  enjoy  this  view,  Madame  Zamoyski. 
vou  find  it  different  from  views  in  England?' 

"'This  brilliant  moonlight  is  something  (juitc 
novel  to  me,'  I  answered;  'but  I  have  been  living  in 
Paris  ft)r  two  years.'  And  then,  imjielled  by  some 
power  w  Inch  I  Iiave  never  been  able  to  define,  I  told 
him  mv  storv  and  why  I  had  come  to  St.  Petersburg. 
I  kept  nothing  back,  but  told  him  of  leaving  my 
home  in  London;  t)f  going  to  Paris;  of  Casimir's 
struggles  tt)  earn  a  livelihood;  of  our  little  home, 
and  finally  of  my  husband's  illness.  .\s  I  talked,  the 
Emi)eror's  grave  eyes  never  left  my  face.     He  listened 


\i\\ 


OS 


CKOWXHD     AT     LLIM. 


intently  to  every  word,  and  when  I  finished  he  merely 
said,  '  Vou  will  hear  from  me  in  the  morning.'  Then, 
bowing  gravely,  he  withdrew. 

"  The  remainder  of  the  ball  was  as  a  dream.  I 
hovered  eontinually  between  joy  and  desj)air.  One 
moment  I  imagined  that  the  Emperor  would  grant 
Casimir's  pardon,  and  the  next  I  was  reproaehing 
myself  for  my  jiresumption  in  speaking  to  him. 

"  When  I  .awoke  the  next  morning,  I  half  faneied 
tliat  the  events  of  the  previous  evening  must  have 
i)een  a  dream.  In  the  practieal  light  of  eommon  day 
it  seemed  ineredible  that  I  should  have  been  talking 
to  the  Czar  in  that  moon-flooded  pavilion.  The 
wonderful  lights,  the  tropieal  gr<*ve,  the  fountains, 
and  the  musie  must  surely  have  l)een  a  beautiful 
dream.  But  through  the  half  ojxned  door  of  tlie 
wardrobe,  I  could  see  the  white  silk  gown  wliieli  I 
Iiad  worn,  while  on  the  bureau  was  the  pearl  neck- 
lace which  the  Countess  had  given  me  and  which  I 
had  l)een  too  tired  to  put  awaj'.  On  the  table,  how- 
ever, lay  a  legal  looking  document  which  I  had  never 
seen  before.  I  eagerly  opened  it  and  saw  affixed  to 
the  Emperor's  signature  the  huge  red  serd  of  the 
Empire.  '  His  Imperial  Majesty,  Emporer  Xicliohas, 
has  deigned  to  command  that  the  edict  against 
Casimir  Zamoyski  shall  be  withdrawn.'  1  waited 
to  read  no  more,  but  rushed  with  the  })recious  docu- 
ment into  Countess  StroganotT's  boudoir,  and  in  tlie 
exuberance  of  my  joy,  I  threw  my  arms  about  her 
(•race's  neck,  exclaiming: 

" 'Casimir  is  ])ardoned  I  He  may  really  come  to 
St.  Petersburg.  Are  you  not  ghid?  P'o  you  not 
rcj<nce  with  me?  ' 


V 


CA''^)U'A7;7^     AT     ELIM. 


'.)9 


"At  ni_\-  warm  ^reclin;^^  tlic  Countess  sliivered. 
Eviilcntly  slic  could  iu)t  have  ])c'cii  more  sliocked  had 
otic  of  Ikt  maids  embraced  licr.  I  cannot  tell  you, 
Mr.  Mc()lashan,  what  a  painful  surjjrisc  that  was  to 
*ne.  I  liad  noticed  all  alon^' that  they  found  it  very 
difficult  to  Hi.d^e  me  one  of  them  :  hut  I  thouLrht  tliat 
when  they  found  that  I  was  educated  and  refined  as 
well  as  they,  tliat  thcw  would  lie  lenient  to  (what 
they  thought)  my  lowly  birth.  And  then  I  had  been 
so  lonely  since  leaving  >'aris,  and  I  thought  i)erhaps 
the  Countess  w:)u]d  show  me  a  little  alTection  when 
I  had  been  the  means  of  getting  Casimir's  pardon, 
but — I  was  a  plebian ;  between  the  jilebian  and  the 
{)atrician  there  was  a  wide  gulf  iixcd,  over  which 
neither  could  cross.  However,  I  told  her  briefly  of 
my  interview  with  the  Czar  and  its  result.  When 
Casimir  arrived,  the  Stroganoffs  were  very  kind  to 
him.  Even  his  step-father  gave  him  a  c(^rdial  wel- 
come. The  Czar  was  kind,  too,  and  offered  him  the 
position  which  his  father  had  held.  And  though  he 
did  not  like  the  idea  of  remaining  permanently  in 
Russia,  yet,  under  the  circumstances,  he  was  glad 
to  accept  it.  .Mtogether,  we  should  have  been  very 
happy  in  St.  Petersburg,  only  for  the  coolness  of  the 
Stroganoffs  to  me." 

"Did  they  not  become  more  friendly  towards 
you?" 

"No,  I  think  matters  were  becoming  even  worse 
as  time  went  on,  till  the  birth  of  our  little  Trema. 
She  was  a  most  engaging  child  and  the  Countess 
became  passionately  fond  of  her.  One  day  she  said  • 
'This  diminutive  representative  of  the  house  of 
Zamoyski  unites  in  her  small  person  all  the  beaut3' 


I   ■■  I 


inr 


%] 


I 


100  ck'>]v\!:n    .\r    f.lim. 

and  <j:rnec  of  her  illustrious  nticestors.'     And  thoup;h 
it  was  only  a  <,n-a!i<linothcr's   eyes  which   could   see 
sucli  clianns,  still  it   shows  ho\v  fotid  the  Countess 
was   of  her  little   grandd.'uv^'hter.       In    disijosilion, 
Trenia  was  the  very  antithesis  of  her   liule  cousin, 
Ivan  StroganotT.  who  was  then  three  years  old.      He 
would    have  none   of  the  Countess'   jjettitiL;,  st)  she 
paid  less   attention    t^)  him,  and  Trenia  l)ecanie  her 
heart's  idol.     One  day,  when  Trenia  was  eiL;ht  years 
old,  we  were  all  together  on  the  lawn  at  tlie  suniaier 
home  of  the  StroganotTs,  and  Trema  ran  x\\)  to  the 
Countess  and  said  :  '  Let  me  whis])er  a  secret  to  yt)U, 
grandmamma';  and  in  a  moment  her  Grace's  merry 
lausih    rauLT  (nit   in    the   summer   air.       No   one   had 
the  power  to  make  the  Countess  young  and  gay  li'Ke 
her  little  grand(haughter.       Catherine    watched   tlic 
cliild   pirouetting  in   front   of    her— her  gol'.len   hair 
glinting  in  the  sunshine,  her  blue  eyes   sparkling  at 
some  mischief  she  was  concocting— and  lier  eyes  grew 
dark   with   hatred.       I   saw   her   whispering  to  her 
husband.      What  she  said  1  do  not  know,  but  from 
that  time  she  took  active  measures  to  estrange  the 
Countess   and   myself.      I   know    now  that  she  was 
determined  that  we  should  be  ousted  from  StroganotY 
Palace.      During   the    two   years    which   followed,    I 
suflfered  nu)re  humiliation  than  often  falls  to  the  lot 
of  a  .single  individual.      And    in    the  end    Catherine 
succeeded  in  her  desire.      The  climax  came  suddenly. 
The   Countess   and   myself   had    jtist    had    a    l)itter 
(piarrel,    when   Casimir  came  in  wi'.h  his  fice  stern 
and  white,  and  said  to  me:  'That  woman,  C;itherine, 
wants  us  a.way  from  here.      She   hr.s   concocied  the 
most  diabolical  plot.      With  Volkou^-ki's  assistance, 


CR(~>\y\r:i)    at   i:lim. 


lol 


she  has  circulated   a  story    that    I    h.ivc    formed   a 
consiMracy  to  assassinate    tlie   Czar.      I    cannot    tell 
you  Jic  (ietai's.  f -r  I  am    not   safe   another  hour  in 
r.:>sia.      If  I  were  sure  of  stancHng  a  trial,  I  would 
defv  Catherine  and  all  her  minions.     But  one  is  never 
sure  of  anythins;  in  this  country.      A   carriai,^e  is  at 
the  door  and  we  must  be  away  from  here  in  half  an 
hour.      Where  is  Trenia?      She  must  bid  her  gran. 1- 
manima  goodbye.'      And  Trema.  all   unconscious  of 
what  had  transpired  in  the  past  hour,  came  in  from 
the  lawn  leisurely   swinging  her  hat   in   her  hand. 
But   she   was   quickly   put  into  a  traveling  costume 
by  her  dyatka,  and   before  she  hid  time  to  wonder 
w'hat  it  all  meant,  the  Countess  had  kissed  her  good- 
bye, she  was   lifted   into   a  closed  carriage  and  we 
v>'cre  off  to   Prince   Czartoryski's  estate  in   Galicia. 
I  shall  never  forget  that  journey.      Fven  now  I  can- 
not recall  it  without  a  shudder.      I  am  glad  that  we 
are  divided  f  "om  it  by  six  years  of  time,  and  that  we 
have  at  last  found  such  a  peaceful  spot  in  which  to 
live  as  Riverside.    But  do  you  know,  Mr.  McGlashan, 
that  we  never   finished   our  discussion   on  absolute 
and  program  music  ?  " 

"What  you  have  told  me  of  your  experiences  in 
St.  Petersburg  has  been  much  more  interesting  than 
any  discussion.  I  am  sure  you  were  very  brave 
to  go  alone  to  Russia  on  such  an  errand,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  know  that  you  were  successful,  though 
you  had  so  many  trials  after.  But  wdiat  a  change 
it  was  for  vou  to  come  to  Canada.  Vou  would  find 
it  very  dull  here." 

"You  refer  to  the  change  in  society.  Oh  yes,  it 
was  a  great  change,  though  we  had  some  nice  friends 


^^iil 


!  /, 


102 


Ch'(>w\i:n   AT   F.i.nt. 


wliilc  wc  lived  in  Totonto.  But  here  at  Riverside 
the  h)tieHness  is  to  me  ahnost  tinbearahlc,  hut  tnv 
husl)and  likes  the  (juietiiess  and  so  I  try  to  he  con- 
tented for  his  e.ake.  I  love  to  mix  in  the  society  in 
which  we  moved  at  St.  Petersbur^j:.  I  would  forj^'ct 
all  my  petty  grievances  when  I  was  in  such  dis- 
tinguished comi)aiiy.  Hut  it  is  all  over  now," 
Madame  Zamoyski  ended  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  one  may  spend  a  very  pleasant  and  busy 
life  in  Riverside."  said  the  minister,  thinking  of  all  the 
plans  he  had  formed  and  been  obliged  to  abandon 
because  of  lack  of  time.  "  And  that  reminds  me  that 
I  have  still  two  sermons  to  look  over  for  to-morrow. 
I  hope  Mr.  Zamoyski  will  be  feeling  better  in  a  few 
days."  Saying  which,  the  minister  picked  up  his  hat 
and  strode  quickly  away  to  the  manse. 


\ 


CR<>W.\L:d     at     ICLIM. 


lu:! 


11 


CHAPTER    IX. 

STEWART  CAIRNS  drove  Trema  home  Monday 
morning,  and  Beth  accompanied  them,  as  she 
wished  to  make  some  ])urchases  in  town.  They 
reached  Vinemount  in  time  for  luncheon. 

"You  must  have  had  a  delightful  drive  on  Satur- 
day," Madame  Zamoyski  said  to  her  daughter,  when 
there  was  a  lull  in  the  si)irited  conversation  which 
the  3'oung  people  had  been  carrying  on. 

Trema  bent  her  head  slightly  forward,  while  her 
wavy  hair  partly  hid  her  blushing  face.  She  seemed 
absorbed  in  a  bunch  tjf  grapes.  It  was  late  in  the 
season  for  grapes  and  they  were  (juite  a  luxury,  so 
she  held  the  bunch  with  one  hand  and  selected  a 
grape  with  great  care. 

"It  was,"  she  said,  lifting  her  head  in  a  proud 
way,  as  if  thereby  she  might  stop  the  color  from 
further  mantling  her  face.  "  It  was  indeed  delightful. 
I  shall  alwa\'s  remember  that  drive.  Rut  when  we 
got  there,  Jamie— the  little  r:)gue— who  had  been 
hiding  beliind  the  big  gate,  hit  me  in  the  back  of  the 
neck  with  a  snowball.  He  thought  it  was  father 
who  was  with  me,  and  when  he  saw  that  it  was  Mr. 
Mc  'ilashan 

"  He  ran  and  hid  ?  " 

"  Xo,  indeed  I    He  got  more  snowballs  read  v.    But 


»i 


: 


Ij^      ', 


11,4-  CA''M|-.V/./'       17"     I.I.IM. 

1  Icfl  tlR-  srciic  of"  the  tray  wIktc  the  l)alls  were  living 
fast.'ind  furious,  and  ran  in  to  g^'t  Hclh  lo  lifli»  tisli 
the  snow  out  ot  in\  Waek.  We  didn't  sueeeed  very 
well  either,  did  we,  I'.elh?  But  then  wliat  we  didn't 
uet  out,  I  soon  warmed  up." 
"  How  dreadful!" 

Trcuia  ^^ive  iier  shoulders  an  almost  impercept- 
ible shru;;.  •' Wlial  would  you  have,  tropic  weather 
all  the  time?  Am  I  not  inured  to  cold  ?  Did  I  not 
spend  the  iirsl  ten  years  of  my  existence  in  I'eters- 
burLT?  And  Canada  can't  hold  a  candle  to  Tclcrs- 
bur^  for  cold.  But,  maimna,  will  you  i)lease  excuse 
us  now?  For  Belli  has  a  bij;  pro-gramme  to  fill  be- 
fore she  returns  this  afternoon,  and  Stewart  has  a 
pr(^^ramnie  of  liis  own  to  look  alter." 

••Well,  well,  I  suppose  you  are  off  a>,^'lin  with 
Beth.  Really,  Trenia.  yuu  are  5,'ettin-,-  to  be  (luitc  a 
gadabout." 

"Gadabout!  Just  think  of  it !  It  is  so  easy  to 
1)0  a  gadabout  in  a  place  the  size  of  Riverside."  And 
they  all  laughetl  at  the  expression  of  mock  disgust 
on  Trema's  face. 

After  Stewar'c  and  the  girls  left,  Madame  Zamov- 
ski  still  lingerci!  <>\cr  her  coffee.  She  was  thinking. 
She  tapped  the  carj-ct  impatiently  and  jjuckcred  her 
e3'ebrows  in  jierplexity. 

"What  has  co'.iie  to  tne  child?"  she  said  aloud. 
"Unaccountable  and  even  foolish  as  it  may  seem,  the 
fact  remains  that  in  the  two  days  that  Trema  has 
])een  awav  she  seems  to  have  taken  on  a  new  loveli- 
ness. To  her  beauty  has  been  added  a  charming 
reticence  which  covers  even  her  playful  vivacity  like 
a  veil.      W"iiat  can  it  mean?      Nothing,  likely,  except 


\ 


Ch'i>\v.\i:i)    ,\i    I'.i.iM. 


lor, 


that  she  is  ^Towiii;^'  ()!(1(.t  .'ind  I  iit-vcr  clianccd  l" 
notice  it  Ix-forc.  Hut,"  she  t-iukd  with  a  si^^li,  "what 
matters  1)cauty.  or  charms,  or  talents  in  a  jihicc  hkc 
Kivcrsiik?"  Tlicii,  hkc  a  flasli,  a  thoii;^ht  canic. 
She  wouhl  write  to  tlic  Conutess  anil  try  to  hrin^^ 
al)out  a  recoiKili.'itiiMi,  when  doubtless  her  (iracc 
would  inviic  Treina  to  St.  IVtershurji,  where  her 
heanty  would  certaiidy  brin^^  her  a  title.  Madame 
Zanioyski  felt  that  to  see  her  dauijhter  mistress  of  a 
mansion  in  the  City  of  the  Czars  would  be  sulTieieiit 
reward  for  the  life  she  was  enduring  at  Kiverside. 
r.chind  this  plan  there  lurked  the  hope  that  shouM 
it  succeed,  she  would  be  able  to  end  this  exile  a_u;aiu>-t 
which  her  whole  nature  revolted.  I-"'or  it  was  an 
exile.  Try  as  she  w(ndd.  strive  as  she  nii;.;ht,  she 
could  nf)  longer  cheat  herself  into  thinkingotherwise. 
How  she  hated  it  all— the  country  village,  the  still 
fields,  the  babbling  river,  the  endless  woods.  She 
liated,  too,  the  grave  people  who  made  up  her  Httle 
world;  she  hatei.  their  stolid  faces  and  slow  ways. 
If  something  would  only  hapjjcn  ;  if  she  might  get 
another  glimpse  of  real  society;  attend  an  opera, 
or  a  reception!  Delusive  dream!  Nothing  ever 
hajjpjiis  or  ever  will  happen.  Sotne  da\'  a  countrv 
dame  may  come  to  sell  butter,  and  during  the  trans- 
action she  will  detail  the  news  of  the  counlrv-side. 
Perhaps  some  time  there  may  be  a  ♦ea-meeting  at 
the  kirk  and  then  the  slow  days  will  drag  on  again  ; 
and  she  will  rise  in  the  morning  to  go  through  the 
same  duties,  to  read  the  same  books,  and  to  play  the 
same  music  as  have  occupied  her  since  coming  to  the 
village.  And  she  is  still  young;  the  years  have  left 
no  trace  upon  her  beauty.     Many  years  yet  remained 


■  I 


I'S   , 


!■. 


ino 


CA-'MJ-.V/;/)    AT    i:i.iM. 


iu  whicli   she   iniKl't   tiiioy    life,  but    luiv   slif  was— 
c.ii;«.'(i  in   Kivcr-itk'. 

••(  )li,  Idw  I  hale  il!"  s-hc  (.-M-lainK-d,  brinKin^'  tier 
closid  liaiid  down  on  the  aim  of  her  (.hair,  w  illi  a 
tliuil  lliaL  set  lur  riii-s  a-tiiikUii;^.  Then  she  hioked 
utnltilv  around.  What  if  Casiniir  slioulil  hear  her? 
r.nt  lie  eaniiot  hear  her;  lie  is  in  his  room,  and  lie 
i;iust  iioi  know  how  slie  iletests  the  stujjid  little 
plaee;  lor  he  is  happv  here,  and  did  she  not  say  lon-^ 
a^o  that  she  w;is  willin;^'  to  go  anywhere,  to  sulller 
anvthing,  so  lonj,'  as  he  was  with  her.  Ah,  yes,  hut 
she  was  vouiig  then  and  she  did  not  realize  what  she 
was  proinisin^^.  Oii,  tor  aiMther  taste  of  the  gay 
lite  whieh  she  had  led  during  tho^e  years  in  Russia. 
True,  her  days  hail  been  made  bitlei  by  negleet,  but 
better  so  than  this  monotonous  cxisu-nee.  Tlie  very 
thought  of  what  might  be  tilled  her  luart  with  hope; 
her  laee  was  all  .aglow  with  animation  as  she  rose  at 
last  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Has  vour  m.aster  had  luneheon  ? "  she  .asked, 
when  Ilann.ah  appeare(b 

"  Xo,  whan  I  took  uj)  the  tray  he  wudn.a  hae  it 
ava,  but  he  said  that  aitler  a  wee  whilie,  n.ae  (loot, 
ye  wud  tak  him  up  a  bit  sup." 

"Oh,  I  sec, "said  Madame  Zamoyski,  smiling,  "he 
wants  me  to  prepare  him  something  inyselt."  Then 
to  herself  she  added  softly,  "He  h.as  not  forgotten 
the  Paris  (hiys." 

So  slie  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  soon  Ilannali 
\Yas  looking  on  wonderingly  at  tlie  dainty  concoc- 
tions which  appeared  uuiler  the  ouiUful  hands  of  her 
mistress.  In  a  short  time  a  snowy  cloth  was  laid 
on  the  trav,  the   dishes    were  arranged  attractive'y 


Ch.'(>\V\/:!)      \T     I'.l.iM. 


m: 


and  thin  Miri.im  went  into  tlit-  fonservatory  to  get 
a  sniall  l)on(iuct.  As  slic  arranged  tlie  delicate  fronds 
of  a  inaidenliair  fern  about  the  half-bh)\vn  bud  of  a 
fragrant  tea  rose,  she  said  confidently: 

"He  will  be  de'igiited  with  this  little  boucjuet 
and  will  enjoy  the  lunch,  for  I  have  j)re|)ared  his 
favorite  dishes.  Wliile  he  is  eating  it,  I  will  broach 
the  subject  of  writing  to  his  mother." 

When  she  lai  1  the  tray  on  a  low  table  b  •  his  side 
he  looked  up  at  luT  with  his  winning  smile.  "  What 
a  perfect  lillle  wife  you  are!  Hann.ih  l)r(nig!it  tne 
some  lunch  a  'vhile  ago,  but  the  very  sight  of  it  took 
iny  .•i])petite  away.  .\'ow  this  linich  looks  so  teinpt- 
itig  that  I  shall  have  to  eat  it  whetlur  I  want  it  or 
not.  Hut  do  you  know  what  I  think?  Vou  have 
missed  your  c.illing;  yon  should  have  ])een  a  nurse. 
What  a  treasure  you  woidd  h.'.ve  been  out  in  the 
Crimea  last  y.ir.  I'lorence  Nightingale  would  have 
had  to  divi'le  the  lionors  with  you.  It  is  too  bad  to 
waste  your  gifts  on  just  poor  in.  igniticant  me." 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think,  I'an  Zamoyski?" 
Madame  Zamoyski  answered,  smilijig  nn'schievously. 
"I  think  you  are  not  very  ill,  or  y  'U  would  not  be 
ab!e  to  think  of  so  many  jiretty  things  to  say.  I  am 
going  to  tell  I'r.  Bl.iir  that  he  is  just  petting  you 
up,  telling  you  that  vou  luust  keep  to  your  room 
for  so  many  (hays." 

"I  wish  you  would  carry  out  your  threat  right 
away,  for  I  would  like  nothing  better  than  to  get  up 
for  dinner  to-night.  It  is  anything  but  pleasant  to 
lie  all  (hay  and  stare  at  the  wall  jjaper,  till  you  fancy 
monkeys'  faces  are  grinning  at  n'ou." 

"  You  poor  boy  !      Why  did  you  not  tell  me  that 


J! 


I  ! 


'1 


'i  1 


li  /: 


108  C/?OU'.V/;/)     .IT     ELIM. 

you  were  lonesome?  I'll  k"  «i"'-^  g^t  a  book  and  read 
to  you.  Prose  or  poetry?  Poetry!  oh  dear,  that  is 
my  penance  for  offering  to  read  to  you." 

While  getting  the  book,  she  thought,  "He  does 
look  ill;  he  is  (piite  feverish.  I  must  not  mention 
anything  that  will  excite  him;  I  cannot  speak  of  it 
to  him  to-day." 

The  days  'isscd,  and  Madame  Zamoyski  did  not 
get  an  opportunity  to  mention  the  subject  which 
now  (occupied  so  many  of  her  thoughts.  She  had 
not  thought,  at  first,  that  it  would  be  a  difficult 
matter;  but  the  ^-ery  mention  of  his  home  always 
brought  painful  tlioughts,  and  by  tacit  agreement 
St.  Petersburg  was  never  spoken  of  between  them. 
But  one  day  after  dinner,  Casimir  was  sitting  in  the 
drawing  room  looking  out  of  the  window,  and  said: 

"How  beautiful  the  country  is;  the  snow  stays 
so  pure  and  white." 

"Yes,"  Madame  Zamoyski  replied,  "and  does  not 
that  clump  of  larch  ami  .>pruce  remind  you  of  the 
little  thicket  near  the  arbor  at  '  Dulce  far  Niente'?" 
"  Yes.  there  is  a  resemblance,  but  I  am  sorry  you 
called  my  attention  to  it,  for  I  am  afraid  that  I  will 
think  of  '  Dulce  far  Niente'  now  every  time  I  look  at 
those  trees,  and  if  1  hod  to  think  every  day  of  the 
villa,  and  of  Stroganoff  Palace,  and  of  it  a//,"  throw- 
ing out  his  hands  wearily,  "I  am  sure  it  would  kill 
me.     What  is  that  you  are  singing,  Trema  ? 

"'  Billing,  cooing. 
Punting,  wooing. 
Melting  murmurs  till  the  grove.' 

"  I  thought  you  said  not  long  since  that  you  disliked 
Acis  and  Galatea,  that  it  was  only  fit  for  people  to 


l! 


ll 


CROWM-n     AT     KLIM. 


in'.t 


sing  who  lived  in  Arcady.  Won't  you  ])lc'asc  plav  im- 
that  selection  from  Wagner  tliat  you  were  fingering 
so  softly  this  afternoon  ?  " 

While  her  husband  was  speaking,  Madame  Za- 
moyski  thought:  "If  he  dislikes  St.  Petersburg  so 
much, how  can  I  ever  suggest  sending Trema  there?  " 

Trenia  pla^'ed  as  her  father  bade  her,  and  when 
he  complained  of  feeling  chilly  and  went  off  to  the 
li))rary  where  a  grate  fire  burned  brightlv,  she  still 
played  on.  Half  an  hour  later,  Madame  Zamoyski 
lifted  her  head  from  the  book  she  was  reading  and 
listened.  What  was  the  child  singing?  The  words 
came  softly,  dreamily : 

"The  wind  is  whisi^erinij  low,  my  love, 
The  moon  is  rising  slow,  my  love; 
And  I,  k>ve,  thy  true  love, 
Am  keeping  watch  o'er  thee." 

How  tenderly  she  sang  the  little  serenade.  Surely  it 
could  not  be.      Wcis  she  already  too  late?     Had  the 

child ?    No,  it  could  not  be.     There  was  no  one  in 

the  whole  countryside  who  would  be  likely  to  steal 
Trema's  foolish  little  heart.  ThusMadameZaraoyski 
cast  her  suspicions  from  her  and  went  on  reading  her 
book. 


v\ 


< 


U    I    II 

■  i.j] 


i 


(I 


110 


LK(J\V^i.^O     AT     ELIM. 


CHAPTER    X. 

CHRISTMAS  wris  :  ;)proaching.  Every  village 
and  town  w;.-  n  a  flutter  of  ])rcparati()n. 
I)()\vn  the  river,  a  settlement  oi  Cn^rnians  was 
])reparing  for  Santa  Claus.  A  few  miles  away  a 
little  eolony  of  Swedes  was  niakin<>^  extensive  ]ire- 
parations  for  the  festive  season.  Jiil^rnucn  will  be 
loaded  down  with  presents,  nm]  Julhonlct  \--ill  have 
toothsome  dainties  sueh  as  only  come  on  that  day  of 
days.  At  Riverside,  tlie  festivities  were  to  culminate 
in  a  Sunday-seh*»ol  social,  which  included  a  Clirist- 
mas  tree. 

As  the  twilight  deepened  on  the  eventful  after- 
noon, busy  v.orkers  were  putting  finishing  touches 
to  the  school  room,  which  was  gorgeous  in  its  holi- 
day attire.  Tlie  tree — or  more  ])ro])erly,  arcli — was 
laden  with  books,  and  dolls,  and  games,  which  would 
gladden  the  hearts  an  1  brighten  the  cn'CS  of  tlie  littL- 
people  a  couple  of  hours  hence.  In  the  center  of  the 
arch,  and  supi)orted  and  canopied  by  it,  seats  were 
built  tier  above  tier.  Here  the  scholars  would  sit 
and  raise  their  sv.eet  young  voices  in  hymn,  and 
carol,  and  sacred  song;  driving  care  and  thought 
from  the  older,  graver  faces,  bringing  back  h  ippy 
memories  of  days  long  past.  In  the  church  |)i'oper, 
rehearsals  had   been  going  forward,  as   it  was  the 


CKOWXEI)     AT     r.LlM. 


in 


only  place  where  the  childreii  could  sing  utidisturhcd. 
A  str  !1  inelodiati  had  been  taken  in  tor  the  r-diearsal 
andTremaZamoyski  was  organist.  Charlie  Kinnear 
had  been  working  like  a  Trojan  all  morning,  lifting 
and  arranging  scats,  and  helping  tc  get  the  arch  iti 
])laee;  afterwards,  he  was  director  at  the  rehearsal. 
Bnt  it  was  all  over  now.  Taken  altogether,  it  had 
been  a  success;  the  little  peo])le  were  gone  and  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  cpiiet  kirk  the  organist  and  director 
stood  by  the  communion  table.  It  occupied  the 
space  just  in  front  of  the  precentor's  desk,  and  it 
was  now  i)iled  high  with  white  roses,  chrysanthe- 
mums, ferns  and  palms — a  Popish  innovation,  by 
some  directly  tra.ced  to  the  Zamoyskis,  but  that 
would  be  another  story.  The  organist  was  radiant 
at  the  success  of  the  rehearsal,  for  up  to  this  after- 
noon the  scholars  had  given  a  great  deal  of  troul)le; 
the  director  was  basking  in  her  smiles  and  trying  to 


forget   h 


She  bent   her  head  for  a 


moment  above  a  fragrant  tea  rose;  someone  opened 
the  vestry  door  and  closed  it  again,  quickly.  It  was 
not  a  startling  picture  on  which  tlie  minister  had 
looked — sim])ly  a  fair  face  liending  al)ove  a  bank  of 
flowers,  and  standing  by  her  side,  and  slightly  bend- 
ing lorward  to(»  a  tall  handsome  young  man.  In 
fact,  the  incident  was  so  trivial  that  the  two  partici- 
pants never  thought  of  it  a  second  time,  and  yet  it 
was  sulBeient  to  raise  dreaded  possibilities  in  a 
young  minister's  mind.  It  would  only  need  such  a 
little  change  to  make  it  a  woeful  scene  for  liim.  She 
would  be  standing  in  tliat  verv  spot,  in  just  that 
attitude,  oidy  slie  would  likely  be  dressed  in  white 
instead  of  black  velvet  and  ermine,  and  a  veil  would 


II    i, 


IIL' 


CRowxr:!)    AT   i:lim. 


cover  her   liliisliiiiir   face.      A   few   friends    would    ])e 


standing  near,  and  Cliarlic  would  be  looking  gravely 
serious  as  became  tlie  solemn  occasion.     And  he — he 

would   be  holding   the Xo !    he  would   not,   he 

could  not  perform  the  ceremony. 

"  Are  you  jealous  of  Charlie?  "  a  voice  seemed  to 
ask  in  his  ear. 

"  Xo,  I  am  not  jealous.  I  think  jealousy  a  con- 
temptible trait  in  anyf)ne's  character." 

"  Then  why  are  you  so  annoyed  at  a  ])icture  you 
have  just  conjured  up  in  your  own  brain  ?  " 

"  I'l"  "-.noyed  because  I  wanted  to  speak  to  her 
about  t^  ogramnie,  and  he  is  talking  to  her.  He 
is  always  tall  ing  to  her." 

"  But  surely  it  is  not  a  private  matter.  Charlie 
wouldn't  mind  being  interrupted  for  a  moment." 

"Oh,  bother!  I've  worried  myself  into  a  tit 
of  nervousness  over  this  programme.  Everybody 
wants  to  do  scnnething  they  can't  do,  and  do  not 
want  to  do  anything  they  can  do.  I  think,  though, 
1  shall  have  to  leave  it  as  it  is." 

Thus  he  thought  to  stifle  that  voice  which 
seemecl  to  have  a  way  of  asking  unanswerable 
(piestions.  Rut  tliough  the  voice  ceaseti,  the  vision 
would  not  be  reasoned  away.  It  ttirmented  him 
the  whole  evening;  it  was  brought  vividly  back 
as  he  saw  Charlie  and  Trema  helping  to  serve  the 
tables  ;  it  haunted  him  as  he  assisted  the  superinten- 
dent to  get  die  children  in  their  proper  places  on  the 
l)latform,  and  it  even  came  between  him  and  the 
people  when,  as  chairman,  he  was  in  tlie  midst  of 
his  opening  address;  it  was  painted  on  the  darkness 
in  midnight's  ([uiet  hour,  and  it  was  ^)nly  when  the 


Ch'nWXnn     AT    ELIM. 


113 


) 


li^^^lit  of  a  new  (1,'iy  appeared  that  he  diseovered  that 
he  had  1)ceii  a  very  iooHsh  yotniij;  man.  After  all, 
what  had  he  to  fear?  Cireuinstanees  in  coniieetion 
with  the  soeial  had  thrown  Trema  and  Charlie  very 
niueh  together,  but  it  was  over  now  and— he  was 
glad. 

Duties  in  connection  with  his  congregation  and 
with  his  work  among  the  boys  kept  him  very  busy 
f<^r  the  next  few  days,  so  bus\'  that  he  found  that  he 
would  have  little  time  to  jjrejjrire  for  his  annual 
congregational  "  .\t  Home."  For  since  coming  to 
Riverside,  each  Xew  Year's  eve  he  had  thrown  open 
the  Manse  to  his  peojjle.  He  liked  to  have  them  ;  he 
liked  to  see  tiieir  hap^jv  faces  and  hear  their  merry 
laughter.  These  evenings  seemed  to  light  the  rooms 
with  a  brightness  that  lingered  about  them  during 
all  the  gloomy  after  days  of  winter. 

The  minisUT  confided  his  difficulty  to  Casimir 
Zamoyski. 

"It  really  seems  as  if  I  do  not  know  what  to  do 
to  entertain  my  ])eople  this  year.  I  think  I  have 
exhausted  every  form  of  entertainment  in  previous 
years,  and  I  am  really  so  busy  that  I  have  not  time 
to  think  of  aTiything  new.  I  am  sure  thev  will  be 
disap])ointed  if  there  is  no  special  entertainment 
provided  for  them." 

"If  you  will  allow  me,  I  \\\\\  gladly  do  whrit  I 
can  to  help  you,"  Casimir  answered,  "only  I  slK)uld 
want  some  lady's  assistance,  and  Madame  Zamoyski 
is  busy  these  days." 

Mrs.  Strachan,  however,  offered  to  help  Casimir 
provide  sf)mc  amusement  for  the  3'oung  people  who 
would   be  at   the  minister's  social.      But  what  the 


il 


lU 


cr<>\v.\i:d   at   f.lim. 


lid   l)c,  thcv   refused 


nature  of  that    aimisemeut    would 
to  disclose. 

On  New  Year's  Eve  the  Manse  was  crowded. 
When  all  had  assembled,  each  of  the  youn.L,'  people 
was  given  a  slip  of  ])aper  on  which  a  figure  was 
written,  and  they  were  informed  by  the  master  ot 
ceremonies  — Casimir  Zamoyski  — that  these  slips 
would  admit  them  to  a  Xut  Shaking,  which  was 
to  take  i)lace  in  the  drawing  room.  So  they  fded 
into  the  room,  eager  and  curious,  and  wondermg 
much  wdiat  c  Xut  Shaking  might  be.  They  found  a 
Large  evergreen  tree  at  one  end  of  the  room,  with 
nuts  placed  in  every  avail;d)le  spot  among  the  twigs, 
and  they  noticed  that  some  were  English  walnuts 
and  had' slips  of  paper  fastened  around  tliem. 

"Now,"  said  Casimir,  "will  the  person  wdio  has 
the  paper  marked  No.  1,  come  and  stand  under  the 
tree?" 

Stewart  Cairns  had  the  fateful  number,  and  he 
came  forward,  ])lush  ix^^  very  much,  and  evidently 
not  at  all  liking  tlu'  conspicuous  position  in  which 
he  found  himself. 

"Now,  hold  out  your  hands  and  catch  as  many 
nuts   as  you  can."      The   tree   was  given   a   gentle 
shake.     "  How  many  ?  '''' 
"Seven." 

"A  fortunate  number.  It  means  the  possession 
of  the  gifts  most  desired  by  the  nut-gatherer.  There 
is  a  slip  of  paper  on  one  cf  the  nuts ;  let  us  hear 
what  is  on  it,  and  if  you  am  tell  the  name  of  the 
author  from  which  the  (piotation  is  taken,  you  .vill 
l)e  i)rivilcged  to  take  p-art  in  the  yacht  race  which 
follows  later." 


I 
I 


IV 


CRow\ED   .ir   i:lim. 


iir. 


So,  blushing  more  furiously  still,  Stewrii  t  read  : 

"'Out  upon  it,  I  have  loved 

Three  wliole  <1:i\s  together; 
And  am  like  to  love  three  more, 

If  it  prove  fair  weather. 
Time  shall  moult  bis  wings  away, 

Ere  he  shall  (lis  -over. 
In  the  whole  wide  world  aj^ain, 

Such  a  cotistaiit  lover.'" 

Amid  much  laughinj^,  jxior  Stewart  sat  down. 

"  But  the  author?  Vou  didn't  tell  us  the  autlior?^ 
You  do  not  know  !     That  is  too  bad.'" 

No.  2  was  Dr.  Rlair,  and  he  came  forward  trying 
to  feel  dignified  as  usual,  but  he  did  not  svicceed  very 
well.    Again  the  tree  was  shaken. 

"Four  nuts!  That  means  great  wealth.  We 
congratulate  you,  Doctor.  You  are  evidently  going 
to  have  lots  of  practice,  even  in  healthful  Riverside." 

The   doctor  (jpened   his  slip  of  paper  and  read : 

"'Oh,  how  hard  it  is  to  find 

The  one  just  suited  to  our  niiud.'" 

The  quotation  amused  him  as  well  as  the  others. 
and  he  joined  in  the  laugh  which  followed. 

"The    author    is    Campbell."    he    s^iid.    "which 

1       -       1     1  .'ii j^,      ;,,;.,     :.,     it,„    ,.„.i, »     ..-,.  — 

does  it  iiot  ?  " 

Hilda  Rain  was  next,  and  the  number  of  nuts 
which  fell  to  her  was  six.  She  would  be  famous  as 
an  artist,  author  or  musician.  Among  her  nuts  also 
was  one  which  was  enveloped  in  the  mystical  paper. 
She  opened  it  and  tremblingly  read : 

"'One  of  those  bright,  bewitching  little  creatures. 
Who,  if  she  once  but  shyly  looked  and  smiled, 
Would  soften  out  the  ruggedest  of  features.'" 


I'M 


W 


nn 


CRo\v\r:n   at   f.i.im. 


"I  think  it  was  I'ollock  who  wrote  that,"  she 
said,  h)okin^'  up  siiylv  at  Casiinir  Z.imoyski. 

•'  Vou  arc  riglit.  Tliat  makes  two  for  tlic  yaelit 
race." 

"Hravo:  i)rav()!    Hilda!"  cried  tlie  boys,  as  she 

took  lier  seat. 

Many  others  followed,  all  looking  n.ore  or  less 
ill  at  their  ease  as  they  stood  under  the  tree,  the 
center  of  all  eyes.  But  if  a  (jiiotation  canie  to  them, 
they  always  opened  it  ea.-ierly,  as  if  the  words  were 
really  applicable  to  them  and  revealed  some  phase 
of  their  life  or  chaiacter. 

•'Number  IG,"  called  Casimir,  and  Charlie  Kin- 
near  came  forwar(  .  Imvc  nuts  were  his  jjortion, 
which,  he  was  told,  meant  a  voya.ge  across  the  sea. 
He,  too.  got  a  quoLation  ;  it  read  : 

"May  I  a  sina.l  house  and  larj,'f  garden  have' 
.•\nii  a  few  friends,  and  many  hooks;  Ijolh  true, 
Roth  wise  ami  both  delightful  t.io^ 
And  since  love  nc  er  from  me  will  tlee, 
A  inistress,  moderately  fair 
And  good  as  guardian  angels  are- 
Only  beloved  and  loving  me?" 

This  quotation  caused  much  laughter  at  Charlie's 
expense,  but  he  s|,v,.ve  u])  bravely  : 

"It  is  just  what  I  would  choose  anyway,  if  t!ie 
Fates  gave  me  my  choice  out  of  tlicir  s.oreliouse  of 
good  things.  And  I  know  who  wrotj  it;  it  was 
Cowley." 

"("i(^od  for  you,  Charlie!"  cried  his  friends. 

Trcma  was  next. 

"just  two  nuts,"  said   her   father.      "  \V<.-11  that 


nicnns   an   e 


arlv 


marriage. 


at    which    she   bluslied 


CRowxnn    \  r    i:i.r.\r. 


117 


i 

I 


deeply,     "but    you    are    more    forlunate    than    the 
others,  for  eaeli  nut  has  a  ([notation." 
She  opened  one  shp  .'uid  read  gravely: 

•"Who  is  Sylvia'     Wlial  is  slie  ? 

That  all  oiir  swains  comtuciid  her? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she. 
The  heavens  such  t;r.'icc  did  lend  her 
That  slie  inii^ht  admired  be.'" 

"  It  is  Shakespeare,  of  course;  "  ami  tlien  added, 
after  opening  the  second  slip,  "  But  this  other  paper 
— I  do  not  need  to  read  it." 

"Oh,  yes!  yes  I  "  everyone  exclaimed. 

"  Hut  it  should  have  fallen  to  a  gentleman,"  she 
said,  blushing  ])ainfully. 

"  I  will  read  it,"  David  McCilashan  szdd,  stejjping 
to  her  side : 

"  '  Chose  I  a  wife, 
I'd  have  her— perhaps  fair,  certainly  gentle, 
True,  if 't  were  possible;  and  tender — oh! 
As  daylight  when  it  nielts  in  eveninji  seas. 
The  waves  all  dark  with  siunibcr.'" 

"Thank  you,"  she  said  softly,  lifting  her  eyes 
suffused  with  a  happy  light  to  his  face;  then  drop- 
ping them  again,  she  continued,  "The  lines  are  not 
familiar  to  me,  I  cannot  tell  the  author,"  and  moved 
to  her  seat  so  gravely  quiet  that  no  one  felt  inclined 
to  tease  her. 

Beth  came  next,  and  as  she  took  her  ])l.'ice, 
Casimir  said  : 

"  I  think  I  must  have  given  the  tree  but  a  very 
gentle  touch  last  time,"  and  he  gave  it  such  a 
vigorous  shake  tluit  the  nuts  fell  like  rrun.  Tliey 
clung  in  the  ccjils  of  her  hair,  in  the  frills  about  her 


118 


CRo  ir.\  /. /(    .1  r   n i.f.M . 


shoulders,  nnd  in  litr  hands — tourlfcri  i  i  all. 


And 


only  one."  she   said,  ruetully,  "  with   a   ciuotation." 
It  read  : 

"  kiiidiu'ss  ill  women,  not  their  Ijcautcous  looks, 
.Siiall   win   .ny  love." 

"  It  is  from  Shakespeare.  But,  Mr.  Zaiiioyski, 
what  do  fourteen  nuts  mean?" 

"SomethinL^  very  ^.^ood,  indeed.  If  seven  is  the 
charmed  number,  twice  seven  is  even  hetter.  It  is 
marriajj:e,  riches,  honor— everything  th.it  is  good." 
So,  smiling  and  haopy,  Beth  took  her  seat  beside 
Treina.      Hut  Trema  liad  made  a  discovery. 

"See,  Iktli !  I've  crackeil  these  nuts  and  one  o{ 
them  is  double.  Mrs.  Strachan,"  turning  to  that 
lady,  "  What  do  three  mils  mean?" 

"A  legacy,  Miss  Trema." 

"Then  my  foriime  is  changed." 

"  Xo,  it  isn't,  Trema,"  Stewart  Cairns  whis])ered 
over.  "  It  means  an  early  marriage  first  and  a  legacy 
afterwards." 

"Oil,  you  dreadful  boy!     How  smart  you  are!" 

.Meanwhile,  Matthew  Carruth  \vas  waiting  for 
the  gilts  the  Fates  might  send  him.  He  wiis  an 
elder  and  a  bachelor,  and  being  the  su|icrintendent 
of  the  Sunday  School,  he  %vas  not  (juite  sure  if  it 
were  a  proper  thing  to  take  part  in  an  amusement 
which  seemed  to  have  an  adinity  with  the  rites  of 
soothsayers.  The  pai)er,  besides,  which  he  held  in 
his  hand  had  something  uncanny  about  it.  Whv, 
of  all  the  quotations,  should  this  one  have  come  to 

him  ? 

•'Tlie  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest, 
The  old  hope  hardest  to  be  lost." 


I 


i 


1'^ 


c'A'"  \v.\i:  n    \  T    i:lim. 


1  !'.• 


It  scciiR'd  to  jji-ovc  lliat  there  was  some  evil 
^^eiiiiis  presidiii;:^  over  the  ^aine.  So  lie  stood  for  a 
iiiKineiit  h)oI;iii;^  at  the  eniiipany  over  his  ;^hisses 
and  iVoin  out  the  pent-house  ol  his  slia^^L'^y  eyebrows, 
;md  tlien  he  said  solemnly  : 

"Ma  freends,  I  juist  camia  say  that,  this  n^ame  is 
a  proper  ane  tae  Iic  jilayed  in  the  hoose  o'  oor  meen- 
istcr.  No  tlial  I  wud  east  a  ;;lum  ower  sir  bonnie 
I  faees,"  iiotinLj  the  startled  look  whieh  luul  crept  over 

-  some  of  the  eountenanees  ;   "hut  it  seems  tae  me  tae 

be  talikin'  a  keek  iniae  the  future,  wiiieh  \ves  a 
thiaij:,  as  ye  ken  richt  weel,  that  (ior  Faither  ga\e  a 
maist  exjjress  command  against  tae  the  Children  o' 
Israel.  There  be  some  wha  lievna  been  brocht  \\\-> 
on  the  pure  milk  o'  the  Word;  these  be  aye  fa'in' 
intae  unco'  weys,  but  it  becometh  lis  wha  ken  the 
richt  road  that  wc  tak  heetl  tae  oor  weys,  walkin' 
aye  circumspectly.  I'm  no  much  for  the  poetry — 
Robbie  lUirns  is  guid  eneuch  for  me — sac  I  dinna  ken 
wha  made  these  lines  uj),  but  their  fou  o'  meaniri' ; 
ay,  fou  o'  meanin'." 

The  minister  had  flushed  hoily  during  the  first 
part  of  the  superintendent's  speech.  "  Mr.  Carruth," 
he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  you  have  taken  this  game  too 
seriously.  I  am  sure  there  is  no  one  present  who 
realU'  believes  that  the  iiuml)er  of  nuts  which  thev 
have  caught  will  in  any  way  inHuence  their  future. 
The  game  has  aftbrded  a  great  deal  of  innojcnt 
amusement,  and  amusement  is  as  necessary  to  yoi.ng 
hearts  as  sunshine  is  to  flowers,  and  I  am  very  grate- 
ful to  Mrs.  Strachan  and  Mr.  Zamoyski  for  devising 
so  pleasant  an  entertainment  for  my  friends."  Then 
turning  to  Casimir  .Zamoyski,  he  said  :  "  I  come  ne.\t. 


I  I 


rjo 


c'A'oirv/;/*     1  ?•    r.i.iM 


<li»  I  Jiot?     Hilt,"  lu-  addfd,  I;iu;^liin;4ly 


,'IS 


I 


aiii  t.;c 


I.-ist  I  think  I  sliould  hrivc  all  that  is  kit  on  tin.-  tree— 
(|U()tati()ns  and  all." 


Oh,    no!    no' 


tl 


le    vonnj^j    j)<,()|)lc    cxtlaiinc( 


"That  would  not  he  fair.      You  will    have   to    take 
what  comes  to  you,  the  same  as  we  did 

So  the  tree  was  om-e  more  shaken,  and  the  nuts 
tumbled  down,  but  of  all  which  fell  he  caught  only 
two. 

"An  earlie  merriap^e,  is  it?"  said  Matthew  Car- 
nith.    "  I'm  tbiiikin'  ye've  no  niuckle  time  tne  spare." 
Hut  no  one  heeded  Matthew's  remark;  they  were 
listenin;;^  to  the  ([notation. 

"Soft  eyes  oCliliic!     Sweet  eyes  of  blue! 
Tliey  haunt  nic  nii»rii  ;uicl  ni<:lit ; 
Wliati-'er  I  (Id,  they  thrill  uic  throu.^h; 

Tlu-y're  ever  in  my  sij,'ht. 
It  was  nut  so  a  Mav  aj,';) — 

l'ncn;je(l  my  fi  <l(.\v  ; 

Ah,  t|iiiet  th<)u;,'lit !  dv  love  uncaught! 
.'\iul  those  sweet  eyes  of  blue." 

"Those  lines  fell  to  the  wronjjj  person,"  Mrs, 
Straclian  whispered  to  Mrs.  Zamoyski.  "I  was 
thinkin!^'  of  Cli.M-Jic  Kiinienr  wlu-n  I  wrote  them. 
They  do  not  apply  to  Mr.  Mor.lashan  at  all.  Hut 
we  should  not  L:rumbl<  ;  everythinjj:  has  tunu'd  out 
very  nicely." 

"Hut  why  should  the  lines  apply  to  Charlie 
Kinnear?"   Madame  Zamoyski   asked. 

"  Oil,  do  you  not  see?  " 

Trema's  mother  turned  in  the  direction  indicated 
and  saw  Charlie  ben  liiiLl  over  her  chair,  .and  for 
some  reason  Trema  had  flushed  from  ])ro\v  to  chin. 
What   was   he   savimr   to    her?       Trema's   f.ice   was 


cA"  II'  \i:i>     \  r    i:i.iM.  il'I 

avcrUiI,  .'iiiil  Mailaiiic  Z,ini'/\sl>i  cmuM  imi  siv-  its 
I  xprcssioii,  hut  slic  could  ^ucss  wliaL  it  wouM  he. 
Ill  1  >',c,  Trtina's  mother,  alone  hccti  hlind  to  what 
was  cvi(l<'nll_v  ai)i)arciit  to  all.  That  lettt-r  to  the 
Couiite>^s  must  1)0  written  a*^  oiiee.  She  blameil  her- 
self Jor  her  caielexsiiess  ;  hut  slie  would  act  prijinptly. 
Treina  must  ;^'o  tc-  St.  iVlershtir;.:. 

Meantime,  for  one  brief  moment  after  readinj^^ 
the  (luotation,  David  McCil'ishan  ielt  that  every  otie 
must  know  liis  secret,  then  lie,  too,  saw  Charlie 
Kiimear,  aiid  a  look  of  cold  reserve  ovcr^liread  liis 
face.  "The  lines  wre  written  hy  I')enneU,"  he  saiil 
coldly.  Then  he  turned  to  Casimir  Zamoyski,  and 
after  s[)eakin;.,'^  to  him  for  a  few  moments,  he  tohl  the 
company  that  the  3'acht  race  would  take  place  in 
the  nuisetim. 

The  museum  was  a  room  with  which  the  hoys 
were  j)erfectly  familiar.  It  was  above  the  library, 
and  was  reached  by  way  t)r  the  stone  stairway 
which  IkuI  attracted  Trema's  attention  on  the  ilay 
of  her  first  visit  to  the  Manse.  The  collections  con- 
tained in  the  museum  had  been  princii)aUy  gathered 
l)y  the  boys.  For  the  minister,  after  his  discovery  at 
the  brewery,  had  sought  to  keep  the  Ixws  out  (T 
harm's  way  by  giving  ttiem  something  new  to 
interest  them.  So,  after  school  and  <  n  Saturday 
afternoons,  he  took  them  on  expeditions  u[)  t!ie  river, 
and  they  received  their  first  lessons  in  botany  and 
geology,  and  tliey  were  interested. 

The  story  of  the  way  the  earth  was  built  up,  as 
told  by  \h'  McGlashan,  became  as  interesting  as  i\ 
tale  of  R  '  n  Hood.  Conimonj)lace  things — a  ])iece 
(;f  rock,  a  bit  of  petrified  moss,  the  leaf  (;f  a  tree  or 


11 


f 


12: 


CKOWXUD     AT     ELIM. 


the  Icj,-  of  a  frof,'.  which  they  had  bctbre  passed  by 
\vitht)ut  a  second  glance,  soon  became  of  absorl)ing 
interest.  They  read  books  on  niineroh)gy,  zoology, 
and  ])otany,and  soon  they  were  able  to  discnss  these 
things  intelligently  among  themselves.  They  vied 
with  each  other  in  seeing  who  eonld  find  the  most 
interesting  things  for  the  minister's  collection;  and 
many  specimens  were  found  in  the  limestone  rocks 
along  the  river— petrified  snaih:  and  worms;  moss 
so  fairy-like  that  it  could  never  be  reproduced  by 
a  chisel ;  and  yet,  there  it  was,  each  fairy  sprig  in 
hardest  stone. 

These  trojjhies  of  their  rambles  the  boys  would 
l>ring  in  triumph  to  their  pastor,  who,  when  he 
thought  they  were  sufHciently  interested,  set  about 
having  a  small  building  erected  for  them  in  the  vil- 
lage. It  contained  a  reading  room  and  museum, 
and  had  proved  a  strong  counter-attraction  to  the 
hotels.  Since  the  building  of  the  Reading  Rooms  the 
museum  at  the  Manse  had  been  quite  deserted,  and 
now  the  boys   went   around   examining  everything 

eagerly. 

"Oh  there  is  Willie  McKinley's  caterpillar,"  one 
of  the  boys  exclaimed.  "  Do  you  remember  the  way 
he  got  it?  He  climbed  nearly  to  the  top  of  a  cliff  to 
get  an  oriole's  nest  which  hung  in  the  tree  there,  but 
slipped  and  caught  at  a  projection  of  limestone  to 
save  himself,  and  it  gave  way  in  his  hand  (fortun- 
ately he  was  holding  by  his  other  hand  to  the  tree). 
But  afterwards  when  he  examined  the  piece  of  rock, 
he  found  a  caterpillar  all  curled  up,  perfect  as  if  it 
ha'l  just  taken  its  breakfast  from  a  rose  leaf  that 
morniu"'-,  instead  of  several  hunilrcd  years  before." 


i 


CROWXt-D     AT     LLIM. 


1'_'3 


This,  and  man}'  other  incidents  were  recalled  as 
the  boys  passed  around  the  '"ooni,  and  then  they 
found  something  new.  In  the  centre  of  the  table 
they  saw  a  miniature  lake  with  a  pebbled  anil 
sanded  bottom  ;  on  its  waves  Egyptian  lotus  plants 
were  floating,  and  in  the  centre  a  tiny  fountain 
played.  It  was  designed  and  made  by  Casimir 
Zamoyski. 

Only  six  of  the  guests  had  been  able  to  tell  the 
authors  from  which  their  quotations  had  been  taken, 
and  these  now  came  with  their  yachts  (the  Hnglish 
walnut  shells)  in  their  hands,  while  the  others  looked 
interestedly  on.  On  one  side  of  the  lake  in  the 
sanded  bottom,  a  piece  of  gold  glittered,  and  on  the 
other  a  ring  was  visible.  Tinj'  candles  of  different 
colors  were  lighted  and  put  in  the  little  crafts,  which 
were  placed  in  a  row  and  set  adrift  on  the  miniature 
lake.  Dr.  Blair's  yacht  was  first,  and  it  contained  a 
green  candle ;  Hilda  Bain  came  next,  she  had  chosen 
blue;  Charlie  Kinnear,  pink;  Trema,  white;  Beth, 
vellow;  and  David  McGlashan,  red.  The  yachts  all 
started  out  bravely  together,  then  Beth's  got  a  little 
ahead,  drifted  over  to  the  edge  and  stranded  among 
the  pebbles  under  which  the  piece  of  gold  glitte*  u. 

"  Beth  !  "  exclaimed  Charlie,  "  I  did  not  think 
would  do  that." 

"  Do  what  ?  "  asked  Beth  in  surprise. 

"Marry  for  money." 

"And  neither  I  shall,  just  because  a  walnut  shell 
comes  to  grief  anu»ng  some  pebbles.  There  now, 
Mr.  Kinnear,  you  can't  say  much,  for  your  own  boat 
is  coming  this  way,  too.     See  that !  " 

At   her  words   the  pink  candle  fell    overboard. 


I  ' 

!     :ii 

i:i 

1-4! 


Ill- 


Ch'<)\V.\!:D     AT     LLIM. 


splulLt-rcd  U>v  -A  moment  in  tlic  water  and  went  out. 
Tile  floating  eaiidle  elianged  the  eourse  of  Charlie's 
boat,  and  bein^-  now  capsized,  it  drifted  over  near 
Beth's  and  lodged  there.  At  wliieli  Beth  made  a 
grimace  and  said  ruefully: 

"We're  both  in  the  same  boat.  Xo,  1  mean  our 
boats  are  in  the  same  place." 

"  Hello,  Charlie!  "  said  the  doctor,  looking  up  for 
a  moment  from  the  serious  contemi)lation  of  his  own 
boat;  "so  that  is  where  you  are  stranded. 

"Mny  1  a  !;ir;4c-  house,  ami  .small  ^.-irdcii  li.'ivc, 
.\ii(l  plciily  of  hooks,  and  he  frc-e  from  all  ills, 
And  have  a  wife  rich  ctioii^jh  to  foot  the  hills. 

"  Was  not  that  what  your  (juotation  said  ?  That  is 
what  it  meant, anyway, by  your  prcent  destination. 
Well,  I  declare,  Hilda  I  You  and  I  are  going  to  marrv 
for  love."  Which  remark,  with  its  ambigiious  mean- 
ing, was  received  with  a  burst  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  you  all  know  ])erfectly  well  what  I  meant," 
said  the  doctor,  feigning  displeasure.  "  Charlie's  and 
Beth's  l)oats  were  stranded  over  there  near  the  gold, 
and  Hilda's  boat  and  mine  have  hnlged  on  the  op})o- 
site  shore  near  the  ring.  You  didn't  Inugh  at  tliem, 
but  you  choose  to  laugh  at  us.  It  isn't  fair,  is  it, 
Hilda?" 

"  Scarcely  fair,"  she  answered,  dcmurelv. 

Meanwhile,  the  red  and  white  \-achts  continued 
their  course,  each  on  opposite  sides  of  the  fountain. 
Their  owners  were  standing  together,  and  were 
watching  their  little  crafts  breathlessly.  Which  wav 
would  they  go  ?*  They  floatetl  about  in  aii  luicertnin 
way  for  a  time,  then  the  red  yacht  went  too  n^.ir 
to  the  spray  of  the  fount;iin  and  the  cmdle  was  put 


It 


i 


i 


CRnu-xfjf,    .,7   i:f.r.\f.  10-, 

out,  but  it  still  coutiuued  onward  till  it  came  to 
anchor  among  the  lotus  leaves.  And  now  the  white 
yacht  was  left  alone  upon  t'-  •  broad  deep.  But  after 
a  t-.me  it  drifted  into  the  current  of  the  fountain  and 
slowly  niade  its  way  round  to  where  the  red  vacht 
lay,  till  it,  loo,  anchored  among  the  lotus  iJavcs 
And  Trema,  breathing  an  almost  imperceptible  si-h 
^t  relief,  looked  up  at  the  owner  of  the  red  vacht 
with  a  happy  light  in  her  eyes  that  sent  him  floating 
for  a  tune  on  a  titleless  summer  sea. 

When  refreshments  had  l)een  served,  the  old  vear 
was  almost  gone,  and  thccomi)anv  adjourned  to  the 
drawmgroom;  then,  while  the  guests  were  waitin-r 
for  the  chimes  which  would  us)i.,r  in  the  new  ve.n" 
Tren:a  went  to  the  jnano  an<l  she  and  Charlie  san<.-  a 
bttle  song,  the  air  of  which  her  father  hrid  comiio^cd 
some  weeks  before.  He  had  found  the  words  in 
G Oder's  Magazine. 

"King,     lit  ling  softly,  O  ye  niidiiiftht  bells! 
Pass  like  a  dream  acro.ss  the  liiils  and  dells; 
Soft  as  the  snow  ciifoldiii<r  earthly  things, 
Falls  on  the  night  with  sound  like  angels'  wings. 

Ring,  with  a  burst  of  deej)  and  heartfelt  praise, 

For  all  the  haijpincss  of  passing  days; 

For  every  flower  that  grew  beneath  our  feet. 

Breathing  around  our  lives  its  incense  sweet.' 

0  bells!  ring  out  the  meniorv  of  pain. 

Tell  softly  how  the  flowers  shall  bloom  again; 

And  hopes  arise,  like  snowdrops  from  the  snow 

A  starry  crown— no  more  a  cross  of  woe. 

King  softly,  for  the  year  is  nearly  dead, 

O  let  him  go  with  blessin-,'s  on  his  licad. 

For  if  he  brought  us  sorrowings  and  cares, 

We  entertained  but  angtls,  unawares. 


<    M 


^^6  Ch'OWXI-I)     AT     ELIM. 

Softly  into  silence,  chime  those  dream-like  ijtlls, 
Solemn  midnight  tolleth  over  hil's  and  dells, 
Holy   voices  murmur  as  the  echoes  fall, 
'Take  the  future  trusifully,  for  God  is  over  all.'" 

The  last  notes  of  the  song  had  just  died  awav 
when  the  l)ells  chimed  out  merrily,  proclaiming  the 
advent  of  the  New  Year.  The  guests  rose  to  their 
feet,  greetings  were  exchanged,  and  the  merry  party 
broke  up. 


^1 


CA'0]VXED    AT    ELIM. 


127 


CHAI'TKR     XI. 

THE  Christmas  season  was  past,  and  on  the  last 
bn-ht  day  of  January  a  gloom  hung  over  the 
village,  for  it  was  said  c!  at  Mrs.  Bell  was 
dying.  The  villagers  were  collected  in  little  knots 
speaking  of  the  sad  occurrence,  and  everyone  had 
something  to  relate  of  kindly  ministrations  which 
she  had  quietly  performed. 

"And  they  say,"  said  one  of  the  speakers,  indig- 
nantly, "that  that  boy,  Uyden,  has  just  broken  her 
heart.  In  the  past  few  months  he  has  gone  f-om 
bad  to  worse,  till  now  he  just  about  lives  in  the  bar 
room  of  the  Red  Lion,  from  which  he  goes  reeling 
home  at  night." 

But  while  the  neighbors  were  recalling  all  the 
neighborly  acts  w  hich  she  had  performed,  Mrs  Bell 
lay  in  the  darkened  chamber  with  closed  -/es  past 
helping  any  more,  or  being  helped.  No  words'came 
from  the  pallid  lips,  but  with  nerve-sense  sharpened 
by  illness,  she  was  listening  for  the  coming  of  her 
boy.  For  she  loved  him  yet,  even  though  grief  at 
his  actions  was  killing  her.  But  the  nights  of 
watching  and  days  of  mental  agonv  were  over-  she 
was  too  tired  to  think  of  it  all  now.  She  wanted 
him:  surely  he  would  come!  By  the  bedside  Mr 
Bell    sat    with    his    head    bowed    dejectedly    in    his 


!  I 


i.i" 


i 


\' 


U\ 


128  CROWNED    AT    ELIM. 

hands.  The  minister  liad  Iven  tlicre,  but  was  pone 
now  gone  once  more  on  an  errand  to  tlie  Red  Lion, 
for  he  was  known  to  have  more  influence  with  the 
wayward  boy  than  even  his  father.  When  David 
McCdashan  entered  the  sick  ro..ni  again,  he  was 
ahme.  He  had  brought  Leyden  home,  but  he  was 
not  a  fit  object  to  enter  a  ehand)er  of  death.  For 
tlie  boy  had  stopped  in  liis  mad  career  h)ng  enough 
to  know  that  liis  motlier  was  seriously  ill,  and  then, 
to  drown  memory  and  conscience,  drank  again,  so 
on  that  afternoon  he  Avas  unable  to  realize  that  he 
would  never  again  see  his  mother.  When  the  min- 
ister came  in  alone,  Mrs.  Ik'll  opened  her  eyes  with 
a  look  of  wistful  entreaty,  then  closed  her  lingers 
about  those  of  her  husband,  and  so  died. 

David  McGlashan  was  sick  at  heart.  In  his 
library  that  evening,  he  thought  now  of  his  fruitless 
work,  and  r.ow  of  that  mother  lying  cold  in  death. 
How  discouraging  his  work  had  1)een.  What  had 
he  accomi)lished  in  the  ministry?  He  had  planned 
to  do  some  great  things,  and  now  after  four  years, 
he  could  sec  but  small  result  of  his  work.  Had  he 
not  made  a  great  mistake  after  all,  in  giving  uj)  his 
art?  Could  he  not  have  done  more  for  the  world 
through  nol)le  j.ictures  than  he  could  accomplish 
by  such  feeble  efforts  in  Riverside?  As  he  paced  too 
and  fro,  these  (pjcstions  thronged  upon  his  troubled 
mind,  till  he  exclaimed  at  last  in  distressed  agitation: 
"I  have  laliored  in  vain;  I  have  spent  mv  strength 
for  naught  and  in  vain.  Yet  surely  my  judgment  is 
with  the  Lord,  and  my  work  with  mv  (lod.' 

When  Leyden  came  to  himself  and  realized  that 
his  mother  was  dead,  he  was  overcome  with  grief. 


Ck(>\vA-i:i)   AT    i:i.iM. 


129 


For,   despite  his   actions,   he    had    reallv   h)ved    his 
mother.       As   there   was  no   undertaking  establish- 
ment in  Riverside,  Mr.  Bell's  two  brothers  had  ])een 
dispatched   to   a   neighboring   town    for    the  coffin 
They  did  not  return  all  night,  and  Levden,  watching 
for  them  ,n  the  early  dawn,  saw  the  horses  coming 
along  the  n.a.l  alone.      Fearing  he  knew  not  what, 
be  rin  out,  and  jumping  into  the  slei-h,  turned  the 
horses  ni  the  direction    from  which  thev  had  come 
He  had  driven  about  a  mile,  when  he  discerned  some 
dark  ol)jeets  on  the  snow,  and  was  surprised  to  find 
ou  reaching  the  spot  that  his  uncles  were  Ivin-  there 
in  a  drunken  sleep.     Fortunately,  the  night    was  not 
cold   or   they  would    most   assured! v  have  perished 
Evidently,  the  sleigh    had   been   overLurncd.  for  the 
coffin   had   been    thrown   out-his  mother's    coffin' 
The  scene  sickened  him;    he   lifted    tlu'  coffin  in  and 
managed    to  get  the  men  in,  too.      He  never  before 
seemed  to  realize  what  it  meant  to  be  helplesslv  in- 
toxicated ;   yet  his  mother  and  his  pastor  had  "seen 
him  hke  that.    And  he  was  more  to  ])lame  than  these 
uncles,  for   he  had  heard  his  father  sav  that  liquor 
was  always  freely  used  at  funerals  in  sJotland-their 
old  home-while  every  elfort  had  been  used  to  keep 
him  from  its  baneful  influence. 

But  he  knew  how  it  had  l)een  with  them.  There 
had  been  a  glass  or  so  at  the  villages  through  which 
they  passed,  more  glasses  when  thev  readied  town 
and  a  bottle  for  compan_.  on  the  wav  home,  aiul  this 
was  the  result.  But  for  hh,  conduct  there  was  no 
excuse.  Out  there  in  the  snow,  in  the  grav  dawn 
of  that  winter's  morning,  everything  came 'vividly 
before  him-his   mother's  early   training,   her   blind 


130 


CROWXnn     AT     I-LIXf. 


idol.iiry  am  mctsur'-'lcss  love ;  his  pastor's  watchful 
care  and  ceaseless  eiVorts,  hi.;  faithlul  tVieiKlsliii),  ^''^ 
conrideiiee  in  liiin  when  even  his  own  father  had  cast 
him  otT. 

"<>Ii!  i  must  h;ive  been  niad  !  I  must  have  I)een 
mad  :"'  he  cried.  "Vet,  I  honestly  tried  again  and 
again  to  stojj  drinking,  hut  the  craving  lor  li(juor 
was  too  strong  within  me."  And  then,  reali^ln  j;  his 
own  weakness,  he  fell  on  his  knees  there  1  v^i.le  the 
sleigh  and  lifted  his  heart  in  prayer  to  that  Father 
who  alone  was  able  to  sustain  him  in  the  hour  of 
tem])tation. 

So  Leyden  Bell  went  home,  no  longer  a  wavward, 
self-willed  boy.  Init  an  earnest  young  man,  imbued 
with  a  new  strength;  hlled  witli  new  resolves,  and 
having  a  higher  outlook  upon  life.  Those  who  knew 
him  placed  little  faith  in  his  reform,  but  the  efiforts 
which  had  been  made  to  save  Leyden  had  not  been 
fruitless.  The  bread  cast  upon  the  waters  was  to 
return  after  many  days. 


CKUWXI::!)     AT     E  L I M . 


131 


T 


CHAPTHk    XII. 

HE  Boys'  Club  frequently  held  debates  at  the 
reading'  rooms,  and  oeeasioiially  it  was  tlieir 
eustoni  to  hohl  open  nieetin;jjs,  when  ilicv 
would  proeeed  to  astonish  their  friends  with  theiV 
elofjuenee.  On  this  partieular  occasion,  the  sul)ject 
was:  "Resolved,  that  Wolfe  was  a  Greater  (kner.-d 
than  Montcalm."  An  unusual  interest  was  taken 
m  this  debate,  owing  to  the  fact  that  Jean  Baptiste 
was  to  be  the  leader  of  the  negative. 

David  McGlashan  rightlv  surmised  that  [ean 
would  not  attempt  to  speak  on  anv  subject  wi'h 
which  he  was  not  perfectly  familiar,  because  of  his 
nnperfect  English,  so  he  took  particular  ])ains  to 
coach  Farquhar  Gilchrist,  the  leader  of  the  afhrma- 
tivc,  in  order  that  he  might  be  e(,ual  to  tlie  voung 
Frenchman.  " 

On  the  night  of  the  meeting,  the  reading  rooms 
were  crowded.  Of  course,  it  was  a  foregcine  con- 
clusion that  the  affirmative  would  win.  for  Farquhar 
had  told  some  of  the  boys  the  points  that  he  was 
gomg  to  bring  forward,  a^id  they  knew  the  French- 
man would  have  nothing  to  answer  them. 

"Mr.  President,  ladies  and  gentlemen:  Our 
worthy  opponent  will  attempt  to  show  that  Mont- 
calm was  a  greater  general  than  Wolfe.      But  this  is 


I    ' 


132 


CRowxnn    \T   i.i.i\f. 


a  fallacious  llicory.aiicj  is  not  lioriic  out  1)v  liist()i-i(.-al 


facts. 


Sii.-I 


I     wris 


Frir(iuliar's  graii(lil()<|uciit  opcnin.!:;. 
ilc  lui  1  practicc'l  his  s])cccli  as  he  went  for  the  cows 
or  jjrcparcd  the  fodder  for  the  eat  tie.  It  was  his 
maiden  ctTorl,  Imt  he  did  not  intend,  for  tiiat  reason 


it  should  he   a    faihire,  like    tl 


le   niaidi-n    spi'eehes    o 


f 


f) 


e  was  wonder- 


Deinostlienes  and  of  ['it  I  He  rather  aijinired  the 
style  of  the  I>uke  of  (iraftoii,  hut  thou^dit  he  would 
he  satisfied  if  he  c  'd  ccpial  the  stirriiii,^  utterances 
f  Patrick  Henry.  lint  now,  just  for  the  moment, 
he  fori^ot  all  ahout  Patrick  Henry.  H 
iii.i;  what  made  his  knees  tremlde  so— Just  like  the 
first  day  he  came  downstairs  after  he  had  the  scarlet 
fever.  And  what  was  tlie  matter  with  the  ])eonle's 
heads?  They  were  swaying-  like  hemloek  tnrsin  a 
tempest, 
spoken  ? 


W 
.\m\ 


IS  it  minutes  or  hours  since  he  had  l.-ist 


wliat  had 


le  said 


Mr.     President,     ladies    and     irenllemen:      Our 


worthy  <.pponeiit  will  at»emi)t  to  si 


low 


Aj^ain  he  stojjped.      He  had  a  hazy    recollecti 


on 


o 


fhavin^^r  made  that  statement  hcfore.  This  would 
never  ,'  >.  What  was  it  that  Mr.  McGlashan  had 
told  him  ahout  Wolfe?  Fontenoy.  Lcniishuri;, 
Quesne— thev  were  all  a  hoijcless  muddle.  Ouel 
Oh, 


I  hi 


)ee 


yes,  Wolfe  whipped  Montcalm  at  Ouehcc.  But 
how  had  he  arranpred  his  sentences?  .\ever  mind, 
it  would  have  to  he  plain  facts  now  without  anv 
garnishing. 

"Mr.  President,  1   wouM  ask  did  not  Wolfe  liek 


Montcalm    at    Oue])ec? 


W 


heiurlits,  and  stood 


lo    w.'is    It   chmhed    the 


uidd 


inhahitants! 


Who 


enly  in    trout  o 
the 


f  V. 


^eare< 


gained  the  victory  at  DuQuesne? 


Ij: 


Ckf)\y.\/:ii     \  T 


i:i.r.M. 


WIktc  was  Montcalm  wl 
at  Lotiislnirjr.  licked  tli 

tlic  iMrircsv 
1 


ir?3 


niicc  Edward   Island 


K-n  Wolfe  scaled  the  liei-,dits 

f  enemy  who  were  hiding  in 

and^rave  to  Hn^'and  Cape  Hreton  and 


W 


>«»    was    it  inaile  M 


ont- 


oalrn  ;,,ve  ui  that  he  was  lieked,  so  that  he  exelai.ned 
as  he  lay  dvMi-:  '  I  am  j,da<l  that  I  shall  not  live  to 
•see  the  fall  ofOnehee-'  Who  u-as  it.  I  ask'  And 
the  answer  is.  Wolfe!  I  ;,,,,.eal  to  von.  ladies  an,| 
Kt-ntlcmen.  d<,  not  these  stron^^  points  show  that 
W  olfe  was  a  -reater  -eneral  than  Montealm  ?  " 

There  was  a  broad  smile  on  the  faces  of  the 
audience,  as  Fanpd.ar.  wiping  the  perspirau,.,,  fVon, 
h.s  forehead,  sat  down.  And  then  thev  broke  into 
■such  a  roun.l  of  apj.lause,  that  he  was  not  s„re 
whether  they  were  makin,:,^  Inn  of  him  or  approved 
h.s  ,na,den  etlort.  Ik-fore  the  noise  ha<l  snbsided 
Jean   Haptiste  was  on  the  jjlatform. 

"I  do  notice  that  my  honorable  friend  does  like 
to  ask  many  (juestions.  an'  I  shall  like  to  ask  som- 
too.     I.or  mstance.  who  was  it  captured  the  forts  ,.f 
Ontario  an'  Oswe-o.  an' took  IGOO  prisoner    rn-eut 
stores  of  ammunition,  provisicm  an' monnaie  down 

ortW-H-'^'^'r    '''"'''''■       ''''^'^    ^^'^'^    it  captured 
lort   Udham    Henry   an'   comi)elled    the  general  to 

surrender  Who  was  it  attacked  Abercrombie  at 
iort  Larillon.  an'  made  the  -eneral  to  flee'  Was 
It  not  the  Marquis  de  Montcalm? 

"I   am   ama.cd    that    my    honorable    o,)ponent 
should  say.  '  U  here  was  Montcalm  when  Wolfe  t<,ok 
Lou.sbur;,^.^  •    He  far  away.    He  know  nuttin^^  about 
Lmnsburg.     He  mind  his  own    beesiness   in    Ouebec 
He   know   nutting   about    Du   Qucsne.       Mv  "lrien<l 
Monsieur  Gilchrist,  he  say  nuttin-  about  Manp.is  de 


13-i 


CRcWXEI)     AT    I.I.IM. 


ID 


N'audrt'nil,  the  Govennir  du  Ciiiada,  w  1 

calm  so  li'i-tlc  assistaiui' ,    lic'lj)  liim  laitiiuni  ;  leave 


M-Ml- 


liiiii     to    coiiihattrc    the     Miitisli    eii 


eiiiv    liv    hiiiiseh". 


Then   \'anilieiiil,  he  have  recourse    to  talsehood, 
tell  many  lies  about  Montealin,  an'  try  to  have  1 
sent  hack  to  France      Hut  Montcahii  I 
an' ne\^r  mind.     Then  he  find  tliil   tlu  I' 


an 
lim 


le  il<  I  h;s  (Int  \' 


lit  1--I1  make 


1,  so  lie  SCI 


id  f( 


or 


i»old  etlort  to  subdue  iMcnch  Canad, 
more  troops,  an'  IVance  she  send  him  back  t.lO  men, 
an'  when  lie  see  so  small  number  he  si^h  an'  say,  'A 
leetle  is  acceptable  lo  liim  who  I 


las  iiuuiii: 


Then   he  briii;.,^   the    whole  milit, 


lire  to  Quebec, 


but  he  want  some  more  men  to  make;j;uard  between 
Saint  Charles  Riviere  an'  the  Falls  de  Moii t morencv, 


'O  It   is  neeess.tire  to  call 


111  he  ih>t  take 


but  lie  have  no  more  men, 

youn;,' lads  j..st  fifteen.     Then   .MoiUeal 

ort  his  clothes  for  tree  whole  months,  l)nt  ^uaideverv 

ajjproach    to  the  citadel    with  <;reat   skill.     Hut  one 

day  they  e.xpcct  some  provision,  an'  Wolfe  he  find  it 

out,  an'  he  climb  up  so  (juiet.     .\n'  when   the  <Mi;ird 


sav 


\V1 


10  <roes  there 


)rmg  some   ]irovision. 


i< 


lear  u>-. 


\: 


Hrit'sh    militaii'e    t!ie\- 
An'  th.il  was  jiow  Wd 


Wolfe  he  say  in  Freneli,  '  We 

(piiet  ;    the    Hiitish    tliev 

■.c  vtiard   he  aot  know,  an'  so'-n   the 

:<>    up    verv    rajiidement. 


le  t-a;)tured  ( ) 


ueiiec. 


Ai 


now,  i^cntlenien,  you  ask  me  w  liicli  was  tlu 


better   «,reiK'ral,    an'  T    tell    you    this.     Wi)lfe   he    was 
adored  by  the  I'.ritisli  people.     If  he  sav  aiivlin>'-  thev 


lis  tea  like  he  was  an  oracle.     If 


lie  as 


k  f. 


r  more  miji- 


laire. 


the 


y  send  liiiii  out    <^reat  manv  \v. 


en 


ail 


am- 


munition,   an'  provision.       I'.nt    Alotitcal 


.;  told  aViout  him,  an'  if  he 


sc 


m    he    have 
nd  t(.)  France  lor  more 


provision  they  say:   'When  tiie  house  is  on  fi 


re  we 


li 


' 


(■A''Ml-.\7.7;      17      /;/, /.\/.  i.-t,- 

C.-iii  p.iy  „,,  .-.tUMlticMl  I.,  tlic  sl.ihic.'  So  if  vnu  ask 
whicli  is  tlu-  K'faltr  -ciiuai,  I  make  response— I  Ik- 
M.iKjins  (!(.■  Moiitcaliii." 

As  jean  Haptistc  took  his  scat  lie  was  elieered 
quite  as  lustily  as  I'an|uliar.  for  eontrarv  to  all  ex- 
pectation the  rVenehinaii  had  won  tlieilav. 

At  the  close  -.1  the  iiuetin-.  Casiinir  Zainovski 
aiKl  David  Me(dasiian  walked  home  to-,'eiher. 

•  What  a  failure  Fan|uhar  made."  said  the  min- 
ister. "  It  is  most  diseoura^Mii.,'  alter  all  my  work." 
"Oh,  I  ihiiik  he  did  very  well,  eonsiderin-;  that  it 
is  the  first  time  that  he  ever  spoke  in  puhlie.  I  re- 
Miemher  students  at  the  Tniversity  who.sc-  first 
attempts  at  j.uhlie  spcakinjr  were  utter  failures,  hut 
who  afterwards  made  such  stirring  addresses  th.at 
they  were  repeated  outside  of  the  Tniversilv;  our 
eountrymen  were  awakened  out  of  their  !e'thar-ie 
sleep,  and  eneoura,-,'ed  to  strike  another  blow  f;)r 
their  hapless  eountry." 

"  Vou  refer  to  Russia  ?  " 
"Ah.  no;   to  Poland." 
"  Poland  is  a  part  of  Russia,  is  it  not  r  " 
"Unfortunately,  yes.      It  has  degenerated  sadly 
since  the  days  when  it  extended  from  the  Baltic  to 
the  Black  Sea,  and  from  the  Capathian  Hills  to  the 
Don.    It  has  now  scarcely  a  trace  of  its  former  fdorv 
left."  *'      - 

"What  caused  the  University  students  to  make 
such  stn-ring  jiddrcsses?  " 

"Oppression.  To  us  the  days  of  Macieiowice 
and  Praga  were  as  a  dream,  though  thev  were  still 
fresh  in  tlie  minds  of  our  fathers.  But  immersed  in 
study  we  might  have  been  tempted  to  forget,  and  to 


13G 


CRowxnn   at   elim. 


accept  the  easy  bondage  of  an  Alexander.  But  from 
the  time  of  his  deatli  the  fetters  were  stealthily 
tightened,  till  even  we  in  the  secluded  halls  of  a 
university,  were  comijelled  to  stand  by  and  see  in- 
dignities heaped  upon  us,  and  our  liberties  one  by 
one  taken  away.  We  thought  thesupi^ression  of  our 
college  pap.^r  was  the  greatest  trial  to  which  we 
could  be  subjected  ;  for  during  long  decades  of  time  it 
had  been  the  medium  through  which  the  students 
had  been  wont  to  express  their  best  thought  and 
most  bridiant  fancies,  l)ut  we  had  not  c(  'nited  on 
Nicholas. 

The  suppression  of  our  college  debates  followed. 
This  was  not  surprising.  It  was,  in  fact,  necessary ; 
for  we  poured  all  our  eloquence,  all  our  patriotism,' 
all  our  pent-up  wrath,  into  our  debates.  It  was 
when  tliey  were  suppressed  that  we  struck  the  blow 
for  freedom.  I  have  no  doubt  that  we  were  a  very 
harmless  looking  lot  of  young  fellows  as  we  separ- 
ated that  November  afternoon,  but  we  had  under- 
taken no  less  a  task  tlian  the  capture  of  the  Grand 
Duke  Constantinc.  He  had  just  returned  from  St. 
Petersburg,  and  we  knew  that  he  was  at  the  I'alace 
Belvedere. 

"Insurrection,  war— they  are  horril)le  things.  I 
can  never  forget  the  look  of  the  presence  chamber  as 
I  saw  it  last  on  tliat  Nt)vember  night.  Many  of  the 
dead  lay  around  '\n  various  postures,  and  the  floor 
was  covered  whh  blood.  It  had  ooze  '  ou*  into  the 
hall,  and  made  a  sickening  dark  line  down  iis  entire 
length.  Still  lying  across  a  chair,  where  he  had 
fallen,  was  t)ne  of  our  comrade  students— a  fair 
young    lad,   apparently    unmjured,    with   a    face    of 


CROWNED     AT     ELIM. 


137 


perfect  peace,  as  if  the  spirit  had  departed  while  he 
slept.  Near  him  was  one  to  whom  death  had  not 
come  so  easily.  He  was  gashed  in  a  horrible  manner- 
from  his  wounds  the  blood  had  trickled,  and  lav  in  a 
dark  pool  on  the  floor.  A  servant  in  uniform  sat 
with  his  back  to  the  wall,  with  eyes  wide  open  and 
stann-  as  if  riveted  in  horror  on  his  opponent  But 
we  looked  in  vain  for  the  Grand  Duke  Constantine 
among  the  fallen.  The  citizens  of  Warsaw  were 
with  us  to  a  man.  General  Cholopicki  was  the 
.  leader.      In  a  few  days  the  insurrection  had  become 

I  general,  and  we  had  great  success.      But  after  a  time 

a  large  army  was  sent  into  Poland  bv  the  C/ar   and 
we  began  to  fear  defeat.      Cholopicki  resigned,'  and 
the  dictatorshij)  was  given   to   Prince  Adam  Czar- 
toryski.      A  strange  turn  of  events  surelv,  for  Prince 
Adam   had   been   brought  up  as   a  hosta-e  at   the 
Russian  Court,  and  a  friendship.  Jonathanlike  in  its 
constancy,   had  sprung    up    between   him    and    the 
young  Alexander.      But  he  has  since  told  me  that 
notwithstanding  this   abiding  friendship,  there  was 
in  his  boyish  heart  an  invincible  aversion  to  all  who 
had  contributed   to   the  fall   of  the  fatherland   and 
though  It  was  (juite  evident  to  him  in  tho.se  bovish 
days  that  his  royal  young  friend  was  innocent  of  an- 
part  in  Poland's  downfall,  yet  later,  when  Alexander 
and   Nicholas  had  successivelv  ascended  the  throne 
and  he  saw  that   the  extinction   of  Poland   was    -i 
fixed   policy  with   them  as  it  had  been  wita  former 
Russian  rulers.  Lis  frienrlship  turned  to  hatred,  and 
he  was  glad  to  array  an  army  against  his  powerful 
toes.     I  know  something  of  how  hi,  heart  mu^t  h.-.ve 
turned  with  longing  to  anything  Polish,  for  or-  ,!-,- 


f'j 


\\ 


■*  .TS 


Ckn]vxf:r)    .\T    r.j.JM. 


in  St.  Pctcrsburt,^,  when  I  was  1)ut  a  Ci.iid  of  seven,  I 
saw  him  seated  on  a  jieerless  A  'ibian  steed  whose 
tra])i)ings  glittered  witli  golo  and  jewels.  As  lie 
])assed  onr  earriage,  he  raised  his  li.it  to  my  mother, 
and  then  he  bent  his  handsome  face  for  a  moment 
upon  me,  while  a  snlil(^  tender  and  ])atlietie,  beamed 
from  his  wonderful  dark  eyes.  He  knew  that  we, 
too,  were  Poles  in  exile." 

"  The  insurrection  failed  in  the  end,  did  it  not?" 
the  minister  asked. 

"  Yes.  and  then  for  nine  years  I  dared  not  return 
to  Russia.  Madame  Zamoyski  has  told  you,  I  think, 
about  t,H)ing  to  Russia  and  interceding  on  my  behalf. 
It  was  a  great  undertaking  for  a  young  woman  not 
yet  nineteen  to  do.  Rut  though  the  Czar  allowed  me 
to  return  home,  he  always  mistrusted  me.  Every 
place  I  went,  everything  I  did,  was  watched.  You 
cannot  imagine  what  a  life  I  spent  during  those 
years  in  Russia ;  for  wdiile  I  held  one  of  the  highest 
positions  that  it  was  possible  for  the  Czar  to  give, 
still  this  suspicion  made  my  life  a  buici-m.  I  never 
told  Miriam;  she  does  not  even  now  know  all  mv 
reasons  for  hating  Russia.  But  for  the  time  there 
seemed  nothing  for  me  to  do,  but  to  submit  to  being 
shadowed.  I  knew  that  my  life  was  iierfectly  blame- 
less, and  that  no  matter  how  closely  these  detectives 
watched,  they  would  find  nothing  wrong.  When, 
however,  Madame  la  Princess  told  what  was  not 
true,  that  was  a  different  inatter,  and  had  I  been 
arrested  I  would  have  been  shown  little  mercv.  I 
barely  escaped  arrest  three  times  during  our  journev 
to  Galicia.  It  was  by  the  greatest  miracle  that  I 
escaped.      I  should  not  have  minded  so  much  had  I 


CA'OWX/:/)     ,i7-     /;/./.u. 


139 


I 


been    alone,   but   it    was   my  wife  and   cliild.      Poor 
Tr^niin.  slie  wcnild  keep  savin-,  '  V(,u  have  not  done 
aiiythin-,  iKi-.a,  whysliould  the  (officers  trv  to  take 
yon?'     vSh.ccoidd  not  understand  it  at  all."    But  ^lie 
soon  for-ot  her  terrors  when  we  joined  Prince  A(h'im 
at  Luecrne.      I  nearly  for-ot  to  tell  vou  that  when 
we  reached  his   estate  in  Galicia,  we  found  that  he 
had  just  started  a  few  days  before  for  his  chateau 
near  Montfermiel.      At  Vienna,  I  met  an  old  friend,' 
Karl  Czerny,  who  told  me  that  lie  thought  his  Ex- 
cellency intended  remainin- a  few  weeks  at  Lucerne, 
so  fortunately  we  arrived   before   he   left.      He  was 
overjoyed   at  seeing  us,   and   took   (juite  a  decided 
fancy  to  Trema.      She  was  a  little  bookworm  even 
then,  and  when  the  Prince  took  her  for  trips  on  the 
lake,  she   would    entertain    him    with    incidents    of 
Griitli,  Morgartcn,  or  Sempach-battlefields  famous 
in   Swiss  annals,  where  a   hatulful   of  mountahiecrs 
confronted  .and  put  to  flight  the  chivalry  of  Austria. 
To  his  K.xccllency's  amusement,  Trema  would  insist 
on  calling  him   Grandpa   Czartoryski.      She  fancied 
that  some  relationship  existed   between   the  Prince 
and  myself.      She  was  not  quite  sure  what  it  was 
but  she  thought  that  'grandpa'  suited  him  verv  well! 
He  took  her  with  him  <m  his  rambles;  togethe'r  they 
climbed  the  mountainsides,  or  thev  watched  the  sun 
setting  behind  old  Pilatus.      For  mvself.  I  was  too 
much  worried  about  the  future  to  enjov  the  beauties 
of  Lucerne. 

"  Well,  here  we  arc  at  home.  That  Jean  Baptiste 
IS  a  rather  smart  young  fellow.  But  vou  riust  not 
be  discouraged  if  yonr  boys  do  not  make  full-ried-ed 
orators  just  at  once.     They  will  come  to  it  in  tinfe  " 


'   ! 


I   I    i 

1  w 


!   , 


1 » 


uo 


CROWNED    AT    ELIM. 


CHAPTER     XIII. 

TREMA,  on  going  to  the  kitchen  one  Spring  day 
to  ask  some  question  of  Hannah,  found  that 
worthy  busy  mak.  .j  pancakes.,  and  shaving 
up  maple  stigar  to  put  on  them.      Trema  was  very 
fond  of  maple  sugar,  and  was  curious  to  know  how 
it  v^'as  made. 

"Haeye  no  seen  the  sugar  made,  dearie?"  said 
Hannah,  in  reply  to  her  questions.  "Then  ye  maun 
see  it  at  ance,  for  the  makin'  time  wull  sune  i)e  ower. 
I'll  speak  to  Mistress  Cairns  this  very  day,  whan  she 
comes  in  wi'  the  sj'rup." 

Mrs.  Cairns  was  delighted  at  having  the  oppor- 
tunity of  showing  Trema  the  sugar  camp,  and  called 
at  Vinemount  when  her  business  in  the  village  was 
over,  much  pleased  to  think  how  surprised  Beth 
would  be  to  see  the  unexpected  visitor;  for  Trema 
was  always  a  welcome  guest  at  Willow  Bank. 

The  next  morning,  Mrs.  Cairns  prepared  to  go 
to  the  sugar  camp  for  the  day.  Trema  watched  her 
in  surprise  as  she  brought  from  the  pantry,  bread 
and  butter,  cold  ham,  jellies,  pies,  fruit  cake,  etc. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Cairns!"  she  exclaimed,  "we  shall 
not  eat  all  that  in  one  day,  shall  wc  ?  " 

Her  frien  '■  smiled  quietly.  "  Ye  dinna  ken  the 
appetite  that  is  faund  in  the  bush.     An'  we'll  no  get 


CROnWED    AT     I-LIM  i  ^^ 

hack  till  late,  as  Beth  said  she  wud  like  tae  hae  twa 
or  three  o  the  younkers  at  the  su^^arin'  aff,  as  ve 
wud  be  there,  Miss  Trema."  -        >^ 

'I  A  picnic  in  the  woods  in  the  winter  time '     Oh 
wont  that  be  lovely  I"  exclaimed  that  voung  ladv' 
and  she  was  eager  to  help  Mrs.  Cairns  and  Beth  fill 
the  lunch  baskets. 

In  a  short  time  the  sleigh  was  driven  up  to  the 
door,  the  lunch   baskets   were  put   in,  Mrs.  Cairns 
Trema  and   Beth  comfortably  seated,   and   with   a 
crack  of  the  whip  they  were  otT.     As  they  sped  along 
over  the  snow,  Beth  said :  -^    ^  h 

"Trema,  wouldn't  you  like  to  know  who  are 
commg  to-night?  Do  you  not  like  our  lassies  and 
lads  at  Riverside  that  you  are  so  indifferent  ^  " 

"Why,  of  course  I  like  them;  but  when  vou  didn't 
tell  me  who  were  coming,  I  didn't  like  to  ask.  When 
did  you  invite  them  ?  " 

"  I  sent  Stewart  to  the  village  last  night.     Now 
guess  who  are  coming." 
"Well,  Mr.  Kinnear." 

"  Oh,  I  knew  you  would  think  of  him  first  " 
"And  Dr.  Blair." 

"Perhaps;    he  is  not  sure.      There  are  quite  a 
number  ill  around  here  now." 

"Then  there  is  Sandy   MacDougal  at  the  mill 
who  1.S  always  white  with  flour.      Do  vou  think  he 
will  get  It  brushed  off  for  to-night,  Beth  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  guess  so.     Who  next?" 

"Jean  Bpptiste,  will  he  be  sure?  And  Farquhar 
Oilchnst  who  made  the  fine  speech,  and  who  alwavs 
eomescrcakmginto  church  in  his  best  boots,  which 
lie  keeps  especially  for  Sundays,  creak  and  all       \nd 


ll!l 


!f: 


ipc 


,!i 


142 


(-  iKd \v.\i:ii    .1  T   i:i.i\!. 


then  there  is  Robert  Milciiell.      I 
forLjet  R()l)ert,  who  sits  Hke  a 


t   would  imt  do  to 
inrirtvr  in  c-liurc!i  in  his 


stiff  collar,  which  is  so  lii-li  that  it  makes  him  red  in 
tlic  face  and  almost  prevents  him  from  tunniij^r  i,is 
head  to  see  the  clock  at  the  hack  of  the  kirk.  I 
know  he  just   counts    the   minutes  until  he  can    ;.,'et 

.'1 


lionie  aiK 


je-k  o.i    those   relics    of  tile  Iiujuisiti 


Trema  Zamovski  I    II 


on. 


ow  can  you  be  so  wicked  ? 
or  is  to  criticise  our  country 


If  all  _vou  ;4^o  to  the  kirk  I 

lads,  you  had  better  stay  at  home." 

"  But,  Heth.  I  cannot  <;o  to  the  kirk  and  k 
eyes  shut;  and  if  I  s"e  thin,t;s  I  must  tliiiik 

"  Your  tlu>ug]iLS  should  be  on  what  tl 


keep  my 


le  minister 


IS  savinir 


ng." 
'  But  you  for-a't,  the  minister 


the  time. 


is  not  i)reaching  all 


Well,    I    will    f 


believe  you  are  a  flirt,  for  vou  h, 
girl's  name  vet. 
"I 


)rgive   vou    this   once;    but  I  d 


o 


ive  not  mentioned  a 


was  going   to   guess    the    girls    after   I   had 


guessed  the  young  men,  tor  all  I  1 


MacDou":al   and    1 


lave  to  sav  is  Mr. 


lis   sister,    Mr.   Gilchrist    and    h 


lev  a 


sister,  and    Mr.   Mkcliell  and  his  sister,  for  tl 
have  sisters— tndike  poor  me.     But  I  must  not  forget 
Archie  and  Sandie  McKinnon;  I  do  hojie  thev  will  be 


there,  for  thev  are  so  full  of 


m 


them  last  vSunday?     Vou  didn't!     Beth  C, 


ischief.      Did  vou  see 


lirns,  where 


do  you  keej)  your  eyes  ?     Why,  they  came  into  church 

very  gravely,  and  sat   down  in  the  seat  behind  the 

famil 

large  book,  which,  however,  had 


y   pew.      I   noticed   that  Archie  carried  a  verv 


no  resemlilance  to 


a  Bible.      When    Mr.    McGlashan   read   the  chapter, 
Archie  solemnly  opened  his  huge  tome,  and  what  do 


CA-oir.v/;/;    at   i:i,im. 


143 


you  think  it  was?      The  Minutes  of  the  Cuncil-no 
less." 

"The  dreadful  hoys!      Hut    I   ani  not  surprised 
their  pranks  are  the  talk  of  ihe  town,  thou-h  River- 
side IS  getting  used  to  them  now.     It  was  before  vou 
came  to  Vinemonnt.  that  they  went  into  church  one 
Sun. lay  dressed  in  their  grandfatlier's  clothes.      The 
style  of  them  was  so   ancient  that  thev  seemed   to 
belong  to  the  seventeenth   eenturv.      It' seems   that 
the  boys  had  decided  not  to  go  to  ehurch  that  dav 
l)ut  their  father  was  indexible,  and  said  thev  liad  u\ 
go.      Service  had   begun   when    thev    came    in    and 
marched  up  the  aisle  to   the   verv  front  seat.      But 
they  didn't   ajipcar  to   hear  much   of  the  sermon- 
ncitlier  did  their  fathor.     The  Ijovs  are  a  great  trial 
to  him.      Matthew   Carruth.  you  know,  makes  his 
home  with   the   McKinnons,   and   he   and    Mr     Mc 
Kinnon  have  long  talks  about  the  bovs.  which  the 
rascals  always  manage   to  hear  and  repeat  for  the 
cdihcation   of  their  comrades.      On   this  particular 
vSabbath.  the  conversation  had  taken  a  graver  tone 
than  usual,  and  Archie  and  Sandy  came  and  rehearsed 
It  to  Stewart.      Archie  impersonated  his  father,  and 
Sandy  was  Mr.  Carruth  : 

'"I  juist  canna  understan'  it  ava,'  said  Archie 
imitating  his  father;  'foi  I've  dune  ma  best  tae  bring 
the  lads  up  in  the  richt  wey,  an'  yet  thev  wull  bring 
ma  gray  hairs  wi'  sorrow  tae  the  grave.      I  thocht 
whan  I  saw  them  come  intil  the  kirk  this  mornin' 
that   It   wes   the  warst   o'  a'  their   wild   escapades' 
an'  their  punishment  wud  hae  tae  be  sair.      It   wes 
scan'alous,  profaning  the  holy  sanctuarv,  an'  turnin' 
It  into  a  play-theatre,' 


;' ; 


M 


u+ 


CR()\V\i:n     AT     EI.I\f. 


"•Scan'alous!  It  wes  that  an"  waur.' said  Sand v, 
in  the  solemn  tones  of  Matthew  Carruth.  '  Hut  I 
fear  ye  hevna  been  stricht  eneuch  wi'  the  ehicls,  Mal- 
c<dm.  Ay,  they  need  a  straucht  haund  ower  them. 
What  wes  it  I  wes  readin' juist  this  mornin'?  'Re- 
cause  sentence  against  an  evil  work  is  not  executed 
speedily,  therefore  the  heart  of  the  sons  of  men  is 
fully  set  in  them  to  do  evil.'  That's  it;  ye've  spared 
the  rod  ower  lang,  an'  noo  the  hairts  o'  the  wastrels 
are  fully  set  tae  dae  evil.  An'  their  punishment  wull 
be  the  waur.  Gin  ye  no  dae  yir  duty,  a  higher  power 
wull  mete  oot  their  punishment  tae  them.  For  the 
words  o'  oor  Faither  are:  'They  despised  my  judg- 
ments, they  walked  not  in  my  statutes;  thev  have 
hid  their  eyes  from  my  Sabbaths,  and  I  am  profaned 
among  them.  Therefore  will  I  pour  out  my  indigna- 
tion upon  them.' ' 

'"I  knew  we  were  in  for  it,'  continued  Sandy, 
resuming  his  natural  voice,  '  when  Mr.  Carruth  men- 
tioned father's  lapse  of  duty,  so  it  didn't  surprise  us 
when  father  invited  us,  a  few  minutes  later,  to  the 
barn.  We  don't  mind  a  flogging,  Archie  and  me 
don't;  but  Mr.  Carruth's  prayers!  I  tell  you, 
Stewart,  ye  ken  naething  aboot  it.  After  father 
was  through  with  us,  Mr.  Carruth  took  us  into  his 
room.  He  lectured  us  first,  and  then  he  praved  for 
us.  He  took  us  over  the  forty  and  two  jounievings 
of  the  Children  of  Israel.  Their  transgressions  were 
all  remembered. and  we  were  likened  to  them.  When 
he  bade  us  remeinlier  the  awful  judgment  that  was 
visited  on  Nadab  and  Abihu  for  wr(M^g(^oini,^  Arcliie 
slippit  awa  oot,  which  I  thought  rude  of  Archie. 
But  when,  in  his  prayer,  he  said  that  we  conceived 


If- 


CROWXr-I)     AT     I-Ll\f.  145 

mischief,  our  thoughts  were  thoughts  of  iniriuitv,  our 
tongues  had  muttered  perverseness,  our  feet  ran  to 
evil,  and  we  had  made  for  ourselves  crooked  paths, 
then  I  didn't  wait  for  anytliing  more,  but  crept  out 
on  my  hands  and  knecs-for  I  didn't  like  to  disturb 
him-but  I  can't  think  what  he  must  have  said  when 
he  rose  from  his  knees  and  found  himself  alone.'  " 

Trema's  laugh  rang  out  like  a  bell.  "  Kcaliy,  it 
is  wrong  to  laugh  at  such  an  incident,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  Isn't  it  a  wonder  that,  after  such  an  experi- 
ence, they  dared  to  carry  on  anv  more  nonsense  in 
church?" 

"  Yes,  but  it  seems  they  are  incorrigible." 
The  conversation  was  now  abruptlv  terminated, 
for  the  smoke  of  the  camp  fire  could  be  seen  ;  and  the 
men,  hearing  the  jingle  of  bells,  stopped  their  work 
to  welcome  the  ladies.     Then  the  hired  man  brought 
more  wood  to  replenish  the  fire,  which  had  been  built 
between  two  huge  logs,  and  Mr.  Cairns,  after  seeing 
that  the  lunch  baskets  were  put  away  in  the  shanty, 
returned  to  his  work  of  watching  the  contents  of  the 
enormous   kettles,  which  were  suspended  on  a  pole 
over  the  fire.     Stewart  and  Jamie  were  carrving  sat? 
m  buckets,  and  Trema  wanted  to  carrv  sap,  too.     So 
they  gave  her  a  pail  and  Jamie,  feeling  very  much  like 
a  knight  errant,  went  with  her  to  show"  her  where 
the  tapped  trees  were.     The  heat  of  the  fire  had  dried 
a  large  circular  spot   around   the  sugar  camj)    but 
beyond  that  the  snow  was  still  deep,  and  sometimes 
Trema  would    break   through  the  crust,  which  was 
becoming  treacherous,  at  the  imminent  risk  of  spill- 
ing her  precious  sap,  yet,  nevertheless,  she  succeeded 
in  bringing  it  in  triumph  to  the  camp. 


\i 


ir 


1  K-. 


ch'')\v\rn   AT   i:i.i\f. 


Wliat  a  (kli^^ht  il  was  Lo  walk  over  the  snow 
and  anioii<,r  the  lol'-.y  trees;  to  watcli  the  peoj)le 
moving  hack  and  forth,  while  the  woods  eehoed 
with  slioiiis  of  lauj^hter;  Lo  poke  the  burninj,'  lo^s 
till  tlK\-  siiot  up  ton^^ues  of  name;  to  stir  the  seelh- 
in<,'  liquid  in  the  e;ddrons.  and  when  thirsty,  to  drink 
the  cold  sweet  sap— tit  nectar  for  the  gods.  What  is 
to  he  compared  to  that  delicious  licpiid?  A  single 
sip  in  after  years  will  tuni  our  thoughts  to  the  maple 
sugar-making  time  of  childhood,  when  with  our  tiny 
pail  we  trudged  over  the  snow,  and  looked  with 
wondering,  apprehensive  eyes  at  the  silent,  myster- 
ious woods  !)eyond  the  camp,  and  s{)eculated  as  to 
what  lay  heyond  the  forest.  But  when  years  have 
passed,  and  the  world  heyond  our  childhood's  vision 
has  become  a  waste  of  commonplaces,  our  thoughts 
turn  backward  longingly  to  the  dim  forest,  where  a 
grouj)  of  snow  covered  hemlocks  formed  thegateway 
to  a  land  of  mystic  wonder. 

Trema  was  not  a  child, and  yet  she  took  a  child's 
delight  in  the  novelty  of  it  all.  Never  before  had  she 
eaten  dinner  in  a  shanty  thatched  with  cedar  boughs, 
and  furnished  only  with  benches  and  a  table.  The 
day  passed  all  too  quickly,  and  then,  wdien  the  sha- 
dows were  lengthening,  the  jingle  of  bells  was  heard, 
and  presently  there  came  into  view  several  sleigh 
loads  of  merry  youngsters.  Beth  and  Trema  went 
forward  to  welcome  them,  and  the  camp,  which  had 
grown  (piiet  with  the  approach  of  night,  took  on  a 
gala  ,'ip{)earance. 

The  young  people  possessed  themselves  of  the 
contents  of  the  kettles,  and  pouring  some  of  the  hot 
syrup  on  snow,  proceeded  to  partake  of  taffy  such 


Ch'(>\\\i:o     AT     HLlM.  ,,7 

as  the  confectioner's  skill  has  never  vet  e.,ualk-,! 
Then,  when  they  had  l)ecv,me  satiated  with  tiie  tarty 
un(l  warm  su^ar,  they  settled  down  on  the  h)gs 
which  had  l)een  drawn  up  around  the  fire,  while  its 
KlowinK,  evcr-clianginj;  light  made  spectres  of  the 
trees  and  a  dim  ghost-land  of  the  woods  hevond. 

"What  a  fitting  scene  in  which  to  tdl  ghost 
stones."  said  one.  "Mr.  Carruth  !  Where  is  Mr. 
Carruth?  He  always  has  a  never- failing  supplv  of 
them.  I  sometimes  wonder  if  he  doesn't  m.ike  tliem 
up." 

"  Make  them  up !     Not  a  l)it  of  it !  "  said  Trema 
"He  IS  too  practical.    Just  look  at  his  scjuare  hands 
with  their  short  scjuare  fingers." 

"Ma   haunds!      Tellin'    ma    character    frae    ma 
haunds!     Ye're  no  a  witch.  I  houp,"  said  Matthew 
approachmg  them   from   near   the  kettles  whidi  he 
had  been  watching. 

"  A  witch  :  Do  I  look  like  one  ?  "  she  asked,  smil- 
ing up  archly  into  the  stern  eyes  under  the  bushv 
eyebrows. 

"  Xa,  that  ye  dinna ;  but  e'en  his  Satanic  majestv 
aye  comes  in  a  maist  temptin'  guise.  Ve  ken  that  a'n 
enchanter,  a  charmer,  cm'  a  witch  are  a'  abomina- 
tions unto  the  Loid;  therefore,  He  commanded  the 
Children  o'  Israel,  sayin':  'Thou  shalt  not  suffer  a 
witch  to  live.'  Fifty  years  syne,  had  ve  talked  o' 
tellm' by  haunds.  ye  -.-ud  sune  hae  fand  versel  roastin' 
ower  the  fire  in  place  o'  that  caldron  o''secrui)." 

Trcma's  face  crimsoned   at   the  blunt,  ungallant 
speech  which  had  been  called  forth  bv  her  thoughtless 
words.     She  did  not  place  much  faith  in  palmistry 
but  the  desire    seized    her    to   shock   him    with   Iier 


i 


1  IS 


ch'i'wxri)    .1  r   i:Li.\t. 


know  k-djjjc  of  ii.  So  Iht  cvos  were  sji.irklinj;  willi 
sii|ii)ixssf(l  full  as  sill-  aiiswcrctl : 

"  The  (lays  of  the  iiitaiicv  of  the  world  arc  past. 
Time  was  when  people  i)eiie\e(l  that  all  who  rear! 
the  lines  of  the  hand  were  in  lea;.;ue  with  Satan,  hut 
Scienee  has  thrown  aside  all  sueh  superstitious  non- 
sense; for  it  shows  that  the  hand  contains  more 
nerves  than  any  other  ])art  of  the  system;  that  these 
nerves  form  a  kind  of  tele;4rapliic  eonnnunication 
between  the  hrain  and  the  hand,  eonveyinjjj  a  eurrent 
of  thouL,dit  from  the  one  to  the  other,  so  that  on  the 
hand  are  re,i,Mstered  the  thou;^lits,  desires  and  tenden- 
eies  of  life.  Now,  here  is  Mr.  Kinnear's  hand;  from 
it  we  may  j.,r.atlier  that  he  loves  diseii)line,  respeets 
law  and  order,  is  not  mueh  in  love  with  poetrv  or 
the  fme  arts,  has  little  originality  «m-  imagination, 
yet,  nevertheless,  he  will  succeed  in  i)ractical  tilings. 
The  lines  are  clear  and  well  defme<l.  The  line  of  life 
rising  to  the  Mount  of  Saturn,  denotes  j)rosperity 
resulting  from  energy  and  determination.  There  is  a 
break  in  this  line — come  nearer  to  the  fire— yes,  there 
is  a  breik,  and  one  branch  shooting  over  to  the 
Mount  of  Luna,  shows  that  vou  will  surelv  travel 
abroad." 

While  Trcma  was  ajiparently  seriously  studying 
the  young  man's  hand,  she  was  in  reality  watching 
Matthew  Carruth,  to  sec  what  he  thought  of  a  witch 
using  her  craft  under  his  very  eyes.  He  had  bcjii 
looking  on  in  incredulous  silence,  till  he  caught  a 
(hisli  of  the  roguish  eyes,  and  then  he  exclaimed  : 

"  Dimia  ])ey  ony  heed  tae  her  havers;  she  kens 
uaetlnng  aboot  it.  Can  ye  no  see,  man,  that  she  is 
descri1)ing  ye  frae  what  she  kens  o'  yer  pairts.     She's 


^^rw 


Ck()\y\i:n    ,\  r    i:i.i\j. 


140 


no   a   fortunc-u-llcT   ava    •      .\„.l,    ,„,„.h    rc1icv-fl    lu- 
turned  alM.Mt  t.,  sec  hew  tlic-  sn^ar  uas  pr..Krcssi„^. 

Mr.  KnuK-ar.  however,  was  much  inipivsscd  w     h 
tlK-cvi.ki.l  truth  of  Tmna's  rca.hn-.  au.l  hc-^r^a-.i  ,„. 
a  hillcr  .Icl.ncation  of  his  hand,  which  siic  h-iu;.,diinLdv 
consented  to  ^mvc.      Tliey  were  seated  on  a  lo-  near 
the  hre.  and  were  so  en-rossed  in  the  all-ininortant 
sul.ject  that   they  .l^d    not    n..tiee   that    their  pastor 
was  anion-  them.   .,11    they   heard    him    sav. -(MM.d 
cvemnK,  M'ss  Zamoyski."  in  a  coldlv  formal  voice. 
Trema  looked  up  in  pained  surprise  a"t  the  lone  and 
Ins  manner  of  a.idressin^r  1,,.^.       j.^.^.,,    on  their  first 
ac(|uamtance,    she    remembered,    he    had   called    her 
"Miss  Trema."      She   still   held  the  voun^r  teacher's 
I'and.  and  in  lu ,    surprise   she   for^r„t    to    release  it 
She  was  about  to  tell  hm  of  the  dcli-htful  dav  she 
I'-'d   had.    but   he   turned   abruptly   awav  and"  in  a 
moment    he   was  ^one.      She    heani    the  slei^libJls 
recede  m  the  distance  with  a  heavv  heart.      V/liy  did 
lie  leave  so  (juickly  ?     It  i.s  true,  Mrs.  Cairns  ha(i  just 
explained  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  see  one  of  his 
parishioners  %vho  was  ill,  and  had  stopped  only  for  a 
moment,  havin-!,,e„  attracted  by  the  lij^^ht  a"nd  the 
souml  <t  merry  voices,  yet  for  some  intan^nble  reason 
she  felt  that  he  was   an^^ry  with    her.      Had  he  seen 
her  telHn-  fortunes  ?      And  did  he  despise  her  for  it  ^ 
rhey  were  so  strict-these  Scotch  people;  and  vet  she 
liad  only  wished  to  shock  Mr.  Carruth. 

The  i)almistry  had  come  to  an  in-lorious  termin- 
ation. Trema  sat  apart  from  the  others,  subdued 
and  quiet,  saying  notl.in-  nor  joining  in  all  their 
fi.n,  till  they  teased  her  for  eating  too  much  maple 
sugar.     Hut  the  hour  had  nowgro-.vn  'ate,  the  slei-dis 


i! 
11 


\\\ 


150 


CROWNED    AT    ELIM. 


were  brought  around,  the  mertA-  sugar-make-s  were 
soon  comfortably  seated,  and  with  three  cheers  for 
Mr.  Cairns  and  three  more  for  his  family,  they  were 
off  for  home. 

The  doctor  and  the  minister  had  stayed  by  the 
sick  man's  side  the  whole  night  through,  but  in  the 
early  hours  of  the  morning  the  physician  jironounced 
his  patient  out  of  danger,  and  David  McGlashan, 
with  a  mind  much  relieved,  started  homeward.  A 
light  snow  had  fallen  during  the  night,  and  when  he 
passed  the  sugar  camp  all  the  weird,  picturesque 
beauty  of  the  previous  evening  was  ne.  The  fire 
was  still  smouldering  and.  in  a  feeble  eFort  to  burn, 
threw  up  a  little  cloud  of  smoke  from  a  coveri  ^  of 
gray  ashes  and  dirty  snow.  The  log  near  the  fire— 
the  log  on  which  they  had  sat— had  its  covering  of 
snow,  too. 

"And  so  they  are  betrothed,"  he  thought.  "  Wliat 
other  explanation  can  be  given  of  their  absorption 
in  eac'i  other,  sitting  there  in  the  firelight,  hand 
clasped  in  hand?  And  then  Trema's  abashed  look 
when  I  noticed  them.  And  yet  I  had  thought  that 
da-  of  our  drive,  that  day  in  which  it  seemed  she  had 

come  over  tne  seas  just  for  me,  that .      No,  no,  I 

was  mistaken;  it  was  only  that  she  had  a  tender 
heart  and  quick  judgment,  and  she  recognized  some- 
thing of  my  true,  sad  self  under  its  repellant  exterior. 
Yes,  it  was  all  a  mistake." 

The  chill  of  dawn  was  in  the  air,  and  he  shivered. 
The  tr^-s  on  either  side  of  the  road  were  stretciiing 
out  bare, cold  branches  towards  each  other,  but  thev 
were  not  more  cold  and  desolate  than  his  heart.   The 


i 


CROWS  ED     AT    ELJM.  jgi 

sun  was  rising  as  he  turned  into  the  avenue  at  the 
•Manse.     He  roused  himself  as  from  a  dream 

AT  r7T''^  ''f  '°"''-'  •  ^^'""'  ^^'^^t  "f  that  ?  David 
AIcGlashan,  be  strong.  Do  the  work  faithfullv  that 
IS  given  you  to  do,  and  if  you  are  to  be  denied  life's 
supreme  gift,  l.  brave.  There  is  enough  sorrow  in 
the  world  without  you  repining." 

He  said  the  words  aloud,  as  if  to  reassure  himself, 
but  they  echoed  strangely  over  the  cliffs  in  the  quiet 
winter  morning,  and  came  back  to  him  in  bitter 
mockery. 


>.lt! 


!ii 


li 


IL 


III' J 

Hi  I  Ji 

'  III 


152 


CROWSED     AT     ELIM. 


CHAPTER    XIY 


RIVRRSTDE  had  Ijcin  thro.-n  into  an  unusual 
excitement.  May  third  was  Trema's  liirth- 
day  ;  she  was  ^oin;.^  to  give  a  ])arty,  and 
almost  ever}'  young  man  and  maiden  in  the  whole 
countryside  had  ])een  invited.  So  tor  two  weeks  tlie 
girls  had  been  in  a  flutter  getting  new  gowns,  while 
their  brothers  looked  on  in  lofty  indilTerence. 
"Fancy  making  such  a  fuss  over  a  party,"  thev 
said,  "a  new  tie  was  all  'J  y  would  grt."  When 
the  much-talked  of  evening  came  round,  Vinemount 
was  in  its  gala  dress.  Ferns  and  vines  and  palms 
decorated  every  nook  and  corner,  while  wax  candles 
in  branching  candelabra  shed  a  soft  light  over  the 
rich  furniture  and  costly  bric-a-brac.  Madame  Za- 
moyski,  in  an  elegant  gown  of  purple  brocade  and 
cream  lace,  stood  just  within  the  drawing  room 
door  to  receive  the  guests.  Trema  assisted  her,  clad 
simply  in  a  dainty  frock  of  white  muslin.  A  i)arty 
of  Toronto  folk  had  arrived  in  the  afternoon,  and 
the  matrons  now  stood  near  at  hand  in  superb 
costumes  of  silk  and  velvet.  The  gentlemen  were  in 
the  library  ;   among  them  was  the  minister. 

It  was,  to  many  of  the  lads,  their  first  view  of 
the  interior  of  Vinemount,  and  its  stately  elegance 
somewhat  overawed  them.      It  required  all  TrcniaV 


if: 


Ch'nwwEI)    AT    i:L!.\t. 


ir;3 


tact  to  mnke  them  feci  at 


ease  in  their  unaccnstomed 


surroundings.    But  David  McGlashan  presentlvcame 
to  her  aid,  and  with  his   kindly  ways  did  much  to 
make  the  awkward  lads  feel  at  ease.    After  watchin- 
his  efforts  for  a  while,  the  young  hostess   lifted  her 
eyes  full   of  gratitude  to  his  face.      There  was  rest 
fulness  and  sweet  confidence  in  that  quiet  ga/e  but 
as   lie  looked   the  expression    changed    to    a    timid 
questioning,   and    though  he   turned   awav   with   a 
lighter  heart  than  he  had  carried  since  that  memor- 
able night   at   the  sugar  camp,  yet   he   was  sorelv 
perplcxed.      Did    s!:c    not   understand    why   he  had 
been   so   formal   of  late?       How    could    she    expect 
him    to    act    otherwise    under    the    circumstances' 
Uiarhe   Kinnear  came  just   then,   and  Trema  went 
forvyard  to  meet  him.      But  even  jealous  eyes  could 
<letect  nothing  more  than  simple  friendship  in  their 
greeting.       David   McGlashan,   who   was   watching 
Trema    closely,    thought    she    even    preferred     that 
y(.ung  Fairgrieve  from   Toronto.      Ai.d  truly  there 
had  been  no  doubt  about  her  pleasure  at  meeting 
Gardiner  Fairgrieve.      Had  he  not  been  her  neighbor 
m   the  city?      Who   but   Gardiner  had   assisted  her 
through    the    first    awful    experiences    of    skating- 
taught   her  to  steer  her  toboggan  down  the  slide' 
and   laughed   at   her  first  early   attempts  at  snow- 
shoeing?     Had  he  not  for  six  long  years  plaved  the 
part  of  a  good-natured  brother?      And,  more  than 
all,  he  was  familiar  with  that  old  life  which  she  had 
now  turned    her  back   upon  forever.      So  there  h-id 
been  unconcealed  joy  in  her  welcome  when  he  arrived 
that  afternoon.      And  now,  with  a  most  bewitchin^^ 
smile  playing  about  her  lips  and  shining  in  her  eves 


li 


n: 

Hi 


ir,4- 


crowxt:!)   at   elim. 


siie  was  introducing  this  fair  Adonis  to  tlic  Irissics 
and  lads  ot' Riverside.  It  seemed  to  the  niinisur  as 
he  watclied  tlie  two,  tliat  Trema  looked  more  like  the 
mischievotis  young  maiden  whom  he  had  fomul  ])iek. 
ing  l)erries  in  his  meadow,  than  the  Miss  Zrimovski 
whom  he  knew  of  late,  for  recently  a  change  had 
come  over  her  which  he  could  scarcely  define.  When 
he  first  knew  her  she  was  a  mischievous,  fun-lovinji 
child.  For  the  jiast  few  months,  lujwever,  wliile  her 
mrinner  was  still  charmingly  winning,  there  was 
noticeal)le  i\  subdued  gentle  dignity  which  had  no 
trace  of  mischief  in  it.  What  unseen  jjower  had 
wrovight  this  marked  ditTercncc?  He  could  not  tell. 
He  had  studied  over  the  (juestion  as  over  a  knotty 
point  in  apologetics,  but  no  solution  came;  philoso- 
])hcr  th.aigh  he  was,  he  had  not  yet  learned  to 
analyze  all  the  mysterious  influences  of  the  liuman 
heart. 

The  musicians  touched  their  instruments  softh*. 
The  couples  were  forming  for  the  opening  fjuadrillc, 
and  Davitl  McCdashan,  watching  the  young  i)eoi)lc, 
saw  Oardiner  Fairgrieve  bend  his  head  a  moment 
above  that  abundant,  Huffy  hair;  saw  Trema  smile 
into  the  handsome,  boyish  face;  la^-  her  hand  on  the 
black  sleeve  and  move  to  the  upper  end  of  the  draw- 
ing room  with  that  complete  grace  which  was  char- 
acteristic of  all  her  movements.  The  young  minlstci" 
turned  suddenly  round  and  sat  down.  He  would 
go  home;  he  would  be  much  happier  in  the  quiet 
seclusion  of  his  own  library.  But  he  could  not  act 
like  a  school-boy  of  fifteen;  he  could  not  leave  so 
early  w  ithout  ofTending  Casimir  and  Madame  Za- 
iiMv^k-      Tiicre  wcrt' some  guests  in  tlie  librarv  who 


II.     .     . 


Ch'OWXl-n     AT     ELIM.  ij,5 

were  not  dancing;  he  would  talk  to  them,  but  he 
would  not  even  glance  at  that  floating  vision  in 
white.  She  was  a  flirt.  She  had  encouraged  Charlie 
Kinnear,  and  now  she  was  giving  her  smiles  to  that 
young  I-'airgrievc. 

Trema,  looking  up,  encountered  his  stern  glance 
and    almost  quailed   before  it.      In    what   had    she 
otTended  him?    But  a  short  time  ago  she  had  thought 
that  he  was  no  longer  angry  with  her;  for  one  hour 
she  had  been  entirely  happy.      Now  it  was  the  old 
state  of  thmgs  back  again.      Were  thev  never  to  be 
friends?      She  tried  to  look   happy,  but   tears  were 
too  close   at   hand   for  smiles.      Then  her  wounded 
pnde  asserted  itself.     If  ],e  chose  to  be  angrv  at  her 
for  no  reason   whatever,   he  might   remain   angry 
She  v/as  not  dependant  on  his  friendship.      So  when 
Gardiner  came  to  take  her  to  Lhe  dining  room  where 
refreshments  were  being  served,  she  gave  him  such  a 
dazdmg  smile  as  almost  turned  that  voun-  -cntlc 
man's  head.      Slie  was  glad  that  David  Mcofashan 
was  sitting  near  them.      She  laughed   and  chatted 
gaily;  she  would  show  him  that  she  was  not  to  be 
subject  to  his  whims  and  fancies,  nor  be  annihilated 
by  a  stern  look. 

David  AIcGlashan  saw  and  noted  all  in  -r-ive 
silence  The  fit  of  petulance  was  gone,  and  he"  was 
again  h.s  patient,  lonely  self  lie  noU-d  with  a  panir 
how  wellTrcma  and  Gardiner  Fairgrieve  were  suited 
to  each  other;  both  were  young,  graceful  and  hand- 
some. A.^  he  watched  them  he  felt  suddenlv  old  •  a 
wide,  impassable  gulf  seeme.l  to  separate  him  and 
Irema. 

"Lady-fingers  or  kisses,  which  will  you  have?" 


i^ 


I. 


130 


CA''Mr.v/;/;    at    elim. 


asked  Trcnia,  holdiiii;  a  plate  of  dainty  confections 
before  her  friend. 

"()li,  I'll  take  kisses;  I  like  them  the  best,"  an- 
swered (lardiner,  gaily. 

"Indeed!  Then,  sir,  I'm  ifraid  ^-ou  will  not  be 
able  to  say  to  yi)nr  sweetheart  on  your  return  as 
Coriolanus  said  to  \'irgilia: 

'"Tliat  kiss  I  carried  Iroin  thee,  dear, 

And  my  true  lip  iiatii   virj>iiied  it  e'er  since.'" 

(n'lrdiner  was  silent;  he  alway.;  felt  defeated 
when  Trema  quoted  Shakespeare. 

"  I  do  not  remember  reading  Coriolanus,"  he  said 
at  last,  tlusliing.  Trema,  too,  was  awkwardly  silent. 
She  was  annoyed  that  she  had  (juoted  those  lines. 
Not  that  slie  eared  for  Oardiner;  he  was  used  to  her 
nonsense,  and  it  was  stujjid  of  him  to  take  her 
seriously  like  that,  but  it  happened  that  when  she 
had  sj)oken,  a  hush  had  fallen  for  a  moment  on  the 
merry  eompany,  and  others  might  have  heard  that 
inopportune  quotation.  They  left  the  dining  room 
almost  immediately  after,  and  excusing  herself  {rom 
Gardiner,  Trema  went  into  the  library  and  sat  down 
by  the  oi>en  window.  She  was  vexed  with  herself, 
and  wcmdered  how  it  was  that  ])eople  who  were 
credited  with  a  fair  amount  of  common  sense  could 
say  and  do  the  silly  things  that  she  was  constantly 
saying  and  doing. 

Iler  meditations  were  interrupted  b}-  Charlie 
Kinncar,  who  leaned  over  the  back  of  her  chair  and, 
as  if  continuing  that  conversation  which  she  and 
Gardiner  had  so  igtiominiously  dropped,  said  : 

"I  know  Coriolanus  umst  have  been  thinking  of 


Ij 


CKOWXrn     AT     ULIM.  157 

Trenm  Zamoyski    instca.l    c.f  \aleria,    wlan  he  said 
that  she  was 

'■"Chaste  as  the  icicle 
That's  curded  l,y     he  frost  from  purest  snow, 
And  iiangs  on  Dian's  temple.' 

"For  you  arc  divinely  fair,  Mk>s  Trema,  and  ^ood 
as  you  are  fair.  If  yoi,  would  onlv  let  nie  have  t!,is 
wh,te  rose  I  would  keep  it  ahv  ays.  Do  let  ,ne  have 
It.     he  pleaded. 

Trema  turned  towards  liim  in  surj^rised  wonder 
only  to  see  Davi.l  MeCdashan  approaching.  He  did 
not  hear  what  Charlie  said,  but  he  guessed  much 
by  the  attitude  and  pleading  tone.  He  was  a  trifle 
paler  than  usual,  and  sad  reproaeh  was  written  all 
over  xiis  speaking  face.  Trema  felt  like  a  eulnrit 
when  she  saw  him. 

'*  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you,  Miss  Zamoy- 
ski, (he  did  not  even  glance  -M  Charlie)  "but  do 
you  knovv  where  your  father  is?  I  should  like  to 
speak  to  him  before  I  leave." 

"I  will  find  him  for  you."  Trema  said   eagerly. 
She  wanted  to  show  him  that  she  did  not  care  for 
Charlie's  lover-like   attentions.      "I  saw  him  but  a 
moment  ago.      Please  excuse  me  for  a  moment   Mr 
Kmnear."  ' 

She  f(nind  her  father  and  left  the  two  together 
but  she  chd  not  return  to  the  library.  The  musicians 
werepiaymg  again;  there  would  l,e  waltzing  soon 
Imt  waltzing  had  lost  its  charm  ;  s(,  she  slid  out  to 
the  conservatory,  where  t!ie  air  was  deliciouHy  c(>ol 
A  door  Irom  the  conservatory  opened  to  the  "''awn" 
she  sto,.d  in  the  door  and  leaned  her  head  a-ainsi 
the  casement.  '' 


\\' 


158 


CRowxnn   at   elim. 


"The  evening  l)cj,'an  so  lovely,"  she  niurnuircd, 
"  but  it  is  endinjjf  wretchedly.  He  thinks  I  am  a  flirt; 
he  will  never  like  me  again." 

She  heard  a  quick  step  behind  her;  he  was  going 
home  that  way.  It  was  shorter  than  going  out  by 
the  front  gate  and  up  the  avenue. 

"  Here  alone,  Miss  Tvema  ?  I  am  surprised." 
She  fancied  she  detected  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in 
the  tone.  He  was  extending  his  hand  in  farewell; 
in  a  moment  he  would  b(  gone.  She  longed  to  say, 
"I  have  made  you  angry;  forgive  me,  and  let  us  be 
friends  again;"  but  she  could  not.  That  awe  of 
him,  which  she  sometimes  felt  when  in  his  presence, 
was  creeping  over  her.  He  still  held  her  hand,  for  he, 
too,  was  trying  to  speak,  but  he  was  choosing  his 
words,  lest  in  his  abruptness  he  should  unintention- 
ally offend  her. 

"Trema."  he  said,  and  the  simple  name  thrilled 
her;  "when  the  glamor  of  youth  is  upon  us,  we 
cannot  realize  tliat  there  is  such  a  thing  as  sorrow 
or  broken  hearts  in  the  world.  But,  child,  do  not 
toy  with  people's  hearts,  they  are  too  precious  a 
commodity." 

She  took  her  hand  away  from  his  suddenly.  He 
not  only  thought  her  a  coquette,  but  he  believed  her 
incapable  of  realizing  the  pain  that  such  heartless- 
ness  would  inflict. 

"  I  see  you  are  vexed  ;  but  you  know.  Trema,  you 
cannot  marry  both  of  them." 

"I  i)resume  you  i  fer  to  Mr.  Kinnear  and  Mr. 
Fairgrieve.  Perhaps  it  would  be  interesting  to  von 
to  know  that  I  do  not  intend  to  marrv  cither  of 
them." 


CR'()\V.\i:i,     AT     r.I.IM, 


ir>9 


And  then,  aft 


cr  a 


loni,-  pause,  during'  wliicli  tlic 
teui],cr  went  iVon,  her  eyes,  she  said  in  a  voice  soft 
.'ind  tremnlously  low  : 

"  Wlien  1  was  a  ehihl  we  were  in  Switzerland  and 
I  looked  on  Mount  lUanc,  and  I  never  a-ain  saw 
majesty  or  ^rrcatness  in  mountains  which  were  mere 
foothills." 

At  her  words  he  cau^dit  his  breath.  Then  tliere 
was  some  one  infinitely  above  Charlie  and  (iardiner 
I- a:r-neve  enshrined  in  the  young  girl's  heart,  but 
wlio  It  was  he  did  not  dare  to  guess.  He  noticed  the 
implied  compliment  and  his  heart  sank,  for  it  could 
not  be  that  she  would  place  him  so  much  above 
those  two.  For  a  while  he  regarded  her  irresolutely 
and  then  something  in  her  face  gave  him  courage 

"Darling,   do   I   dare  to   ask  it?    Is   it  me  you 
love?" 

"Yes." 

The  answer  came  so  low  that  lie  could  scarcely 
hear  it,  but  a  look  offender,  grateful  peace  stole  into 
his  eyes  as  they  lingered  on  her  upturned  face  and  a 
silence  fell  between  them.  The  crocusus  drooped 
their  heads  in  the  moonlight,  and  the  tulips  filled  the 
air  with  Iragrance.  The  strains  of  the  orchestra 
swept  past  them,  bearing  them  into  an  enchanted 
land.  Like  Sappho  and  Phaon  thev  had  come  into 
their  souls'  seaport,  and  stood  upon  a  strange  new 
shore,  resplendent  with  life's  early  dawn. 

David  McGlashan  went  next  morning  to  have  an 
interview  with  the  father  of  his  loved  one.  He  was 
impatient  to  claim  her  for  his  very  own.  Casindr 
was  in  the  garden  examining  a  new  species  of  rose, 


I 


IGO 


C.Vnir.\7.V)     AT     r.I.IM. 


and    the   minister   plunj^ad    into  his  suhjeet  .it  o^  cc 
Mr.  Zanioyski  heard  liiiii   to  the  end    and  tlien  said 


gravely 


My  friend,  this  is  a  j.jrcat  surprise,  and  it 


ains 


me  beyond  measure  to  liave  to  refuse  your  reiiuesl. 
Hut  it  can  never  be.  I  have  made  other  plans  for 
Trema.  Please  do  not  misunderstand  r  '.  I  1 
you  to  l)e  entirely  wc^rthy  of  her;  1 
difVerent  race,  and  her  future  has  bee 


telle  ve 


)ii     \*'ccomeofa 


n    map])ed  out 


for  her.  I  do  not  need  to  rem  nd  you  who  the  Za- 
moyskis  are.  As  close  friends  of  thi  l<in<;s  oi  Poland, 
they  held  the  highest  jjositions  in  the  land.  Van 
CasimirZamoyski  was  Castellan  >f  Cracow,  Starosta 
of  Little  Poland,  and  Chanc-elh)r  of  tin-  K:nj,'dom, 
and  he  was  only  one  of  our  illustrious  line ;  but  all 
this  is  a  matter  of  history.  Yet  I  feel  sure  that  if 
you  knew  more  of  my  personal  history,  of  mv  love 
for  my  country,  and  ail  I  have  suffered  for  her  sake, 
my  refusal  would  not  seem   so  cruel  t 


o  vou. 


But, 

while  all  hope  for  myself  is  ended  forever,  I  still  have 
a  j^'reat  desire  to  see  Trema  married  to  one  of  my 
own  race— a  Polish  gentleman— and  to  see  her  living 
in  the  land  of  my  fathers.  With  this  object  in  view, 
I  have  educated  her  with  the  greatest  care,  and  I 
have  instilled  into  her  susceptible  heart  a  love  for 
Poland  as  great,  almost,  as  my  own.  And  now 
Madame  Zanioyski  and  I  have  deci<'  d  to 
to  St.  Petersburg  and " 


se 


nd 


licr 


"No  more  need  be  said,"  David  McGlashan  broke 
m  brusquely.  "You  wish  your  daughter  to  make  a 
brilliant  match.  It  is  a  praiseworthy  motive.  Vou 
may  find  one  who  is  able  to  bestow^ 
upon  her;   but   one   who   loves   her  bett 


more  honors 


er. 


icver 


I " 


Ck(f\VM-l)     AT     i:i^ix, 


ir,i 


Saving    which,    he    turned 
(juii  kly  n\\  av. 


() 


II   his    hc-cl   and    str<>«U 


D, 


avid  McC.lashan  had  lived  so  h)n;;  for  a  hirr^ 


purpose  than  mere  social  presti;,'c,  that  1 


prepared  for  Casiniir  Zani 


If  was  not 


ovski  s  refusal.      I'.ein-;  e 


n- 


g.'iKcd   nx    winninj^r  soul^    for  the  Prince  of  Kin-s  he 
Iiad  given  little  thought  to  social  distinction.     ?\„w 
It  was  brought  home  forcibly  to  him  that  -  he  was 
ot  a  different  race/      He  was  disap,,ointcd.  humbled 
chagrmed.       Alas,    yes,    the   son    of   humble    Sc-,,teh 
parents  had  presumed  to  ask  in  marriage  the  hand 
of  a  Zamoyski.     But  had  not  Casimir  Zamovski.  not- 
withstandmg  his  blue  blood,  found  him,  David  Mc- 
Glashan,    a  congenial  companioi,  ?       Wee    not    his 
Ideals  in  life  ,i.ite  as  hi;  h  as  those  of  the  Polish  aris- 
tocrat ?   What  did  Ac  lack  in  mental  accomplishments 
or   w.  rh'v   possessions   that    the  other  possessed' 
The  mjus.  ce  of  it !     These  were  the  thoughts  which 
ran  not  thn    .gh  his   brain   as  he  paced   his  library 
hoor-a  habit   he  had  when  greatly  excited  or     lis'- 
turbed.     His  heart  was  sore  with  bitter  disappoint- 
ment and  wounded  pride,  and  as  he  strode  back  and 
lorth  ins  lij)s  were  (juivering. 

And  then,  in  the  midst  of  those  angrv  thoughts 
came  misgivings.      Was  it   not  a  selfish   love  th-it 
would  keep  a  beautiful  young  girl  like  Tre-na  Zamov- 
ski XV.  a  place  like  Riverside,  when,  undoubtedly   she 
was  htt.  1  to  adorn  a  larger  sphere?     And  thJn  her 
aristocratic   birth.     He   knew   (mlv  too  well  that  it 
was  all  true;   before  her  father  mentioned  it  he  knew 
of  the  fame  of  the   illustrious   house  of  Zamoyski 
\\   nle  he-why  he  was  only  a  poor  Scotch  boy  till  a 
generous   merchant  lifted    him   out   of   penury     and 


il 


y 


in- 


cr^nwxnn   at   i-i.nr. 


pl.-ict'd  liim  in  an  imlcpciidcnt  position.  Ami  so 
Kcsiiiliiicni  and  [usticc  wrestled  to;.,atlK'r  in  the 
iic'.irt  of  liic  man,  lic-rcc  and  Ion;.,'  as  tlu-  contlict  at 
iVnifl;  hut  in  the-  end  Justice  wcmi.  He  would  no 
lon;,'er  feel  liitterly  towards  Casiinir  and  Madame 
Zamoyski.  It  was  ri;,dit  that  tliey  sliould  seek  their 
<lau,t;hter's  highest  ^ood.  He  must  not  narrow  her 
life  down  to  the  lines  whieli  set  a  hound  to  his.  She 
had  heen  educated  with  the  idea  of  fill'ti^r  a  position 
of  distinction  and  of  returning  to  Poland.  He  tried 
to  ima;,Mne  how  Casiniir  Zamoyski  would  feel  when 
this,  his  last  hope,  was  hlighted.  Then,  too,  not 
oidy  was  Riverside  devoid  of  cultured  society,  hut 
the  simi)lc  people  were  unahle  to  ap])reeiate  her  gifts, 
and  often  commented  on  things  which  they  did  not 
understand.  In  time  she  might  come  to  see  this 
and  to  weary  of  the  cpiiet  village  life.  She  might 
even  regret  the  step  she  had  taken,  and  that,  he  felt 
(juite  sure,  would  kill  him. 


"And  now  I  must  tell  Trema,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Poor  little  girl!  Will  she  care  very  much  or  will 
she  accept  in  a  ipiietly  philosophical  way  the  decision 
of  her  ])arents?  I  have  no  douht  she  -.vill  feel  very 
hadly  just  now,  l)ut  she  will  go  away  and  in  a  short 
time  she  will  forget  this  little  experience;  hut  for  me 
there  can  never  he  another  Trema." 

He  found  her  it:  the  garden,  and  she  went  to  him 
at  once,  and  took  his  hand  in  hoth  of  hers. 

"  I  see  you  know  all ;  papa  has  told  you  that  all 
must  he  at  an  end  hetween  us." 

"  He  said  he  could  never  give  his  consent  to  our 


marriage. 


Ch-n\\\/:i)      1  y      /;/  / 


\/. 


And.  .)f 


course.   I 


U'itliotit  my  parent 


wonlil    ntvcr   niarrv    anv 


163 


one 


s  (•<)nscnt. 


Did  1 


ic  tell  vou  I  was 


to  ^L,  to  St.  rcttrsl)urj;  soon  ?  " 

"Ki;.;lit  away?" 

"  Vcs,  just  as  soon  as  a  letter  comes  from  mv 
grandmamma.     Hut  the  letter  may  never  come."      " 

"  Hut  if  it  does,  and  you  <ro  to  St.  Petersljur^,' '  " 

"I  shall  not  marry;  I  shall  remain  as  1  am  till 
>ny  dying  day." 

His  grave  gaze  sank  down  searchinglv  into  the 
shadowy  depths  of  her  dark  blue  eves,  and  he  saw 
there  firmness  and  unfailing  devotion,  and  he  knew 
she  would  keep  her  word. 


if' 


ii 


M 


ir,+ 


CROW'M^I)     AT     ULIM. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

CASIMIR  .'ind  Madame  Zamoyski  were  lookinj^ 
anxiously  now  for  a  letter  from  the  Countess, 
but  weeks  passed  and  no  word  came.  Then 
a  new  trouble  arose  which  quite  put  their  disap- 
pointment m  the  backgrf)und.  A  stranger  one  dav 
arrived  in  Riverside,  and  claimed  to  be  the  true 
owner  of  Vinemount.  His  name  was  Ralph  Murray, 
and  he  was  a  nephew  of  Robert  Murray,  tlie  founder 
of  Riverside.  He  claimed  that  Vinemount  had  been 
willed  t(.  his  father,  Charles  Murray,  by  his  uncle, 
with  the  stipulation  that  his  widow,  Mr.-.  Robert 
Murray,  should  occupy  the  place  till  her  death.  In 
the  meantime.  Charles  Murray  and  his  wife  had  both 
died;  the  children  had  been  scattered,  and  it  was 
only  within  the  past  few  months  that  he  had  learned 
that  such  a  will  existed,  and  that  Mrs.  Robert 
Murray  had  been  dead  for  fifteen  years. 

Casimir  Zamoyski  refused  to  give  up  his  claim  to 
Vinemoimt,  saying  that  Blackburn  Montgomery  had 
held  undis]>uted  posse-;sion  for  ten  years,  which  made 
his  title  good;  and  the  case  was  carried  to  the  courts. 
When  judgment  had  l)ecn  given  in  favor  of  the  new 
claimant,  Casimir  Zamoyski  appealed  to  a  '  igher 
court,  but  only  to  lo^e  in  the  end.  Worse  than  all, 
he  had  s])enl  so  much  money  over  the  suit,  that  most 


J 


.  I 


!'■ 


CR(>\vxi:n   AT   r.LiM. 


mr 


i 


of  his  savings  were  gone;  and  when  the  rich  furnish- 
ings of  Vinemount  had  been  sold,  he  had  little  more 
than  enough  to  Iniy  a  small  bush  farm  some  miles 
from  Riverside,  with  a  clearing  of  about  two  acres. 
A  log  house  had  been  built  \>y  the  former  owner,  and 
this  Casimir  made  as  comfortable  f.  r  his  family  as  it 
was  i)ossible  to  do. 

Everyone  was  surprised  at  the  way  that  Trema 
bore  the  eh  rnge  fiom  her  beautiful  home  to  a  lotr 
eal)m;  but  they  did  not  know  that  she  welcomed 
poverty,  as  she  f-mcied  that  it  would  hasten  her 
marriage  with  David  McCdashan. 

She  saw-  him  often  during  those  da.vs  of  upheaval 
in  her  Vinemount  home.  He  bought  many  of  the 
treasures  which  they  prized  the  most  highly,  and 
Trema  was  glad  to  see  them  go  into  his  possession. 
He  never  spoke  of  their  marriage  agnin.  It  was  a 
forbidden  subject.  vShe  just  received  a  look  now  and 
then,  which  showed  that  he  had  not  forgotten,  nor 
ever  would  forget.  One  of  his  sympathetic  looks 
gave  her  courage  to  face  any  change,  however  dis- 
agreeable it  might  prove  to  be.  Rut  she  found  a 
novelty  in  her  new  life  which  was  not  altogether 
unpleasant. 

The  woods  were  very  pleasant  in  the  spring  days, 
wht.i  the  Zamoyskis  first  went  to  their  new  home. 
Red.  wliite  and  blue  hejjaticas  bloomed  in  profusion, 
««hile  purple  and  yellow  violets  nestled  in  the  shade 
of  graceful  fi  onds  of  maidenhair  fern.  Rut,  unfortun- 
ately, necessity  had  to  be  consid.-red  before  beautv, 
so  the  underbrush  was  cleared  r;-;  tlie  violets,  fern 
and  columbine  were  sacrificed  to  the  fire,  and  during 
the  last  days  of  May,  Trema  helped  her  father  plant 


106 


Ch'(>]v\f:i)   AT   Hi.nr. 


l)otatoc's  juid  Indian  corn.  Many  an  animated  dis- 
cussion arose  as  to  how  many  "sets"  of  j)otatoes 
should  be  j)ut  in  a  liill,  etc.  For  Trema,  when  visit- 
injy  at  her  friends,  had  p.-iid  i)articuUir  attention  to 
all  those  little  things,  while  her  father  had  been  too 
absorbed  in  weij^htier  afiairs  to  notice  such  trifm; 
matters.  Indeed,  he  found,  after  a  time,  that  it  slie 
ventured  an  ojiinion  at  all,  it  was  to  be  relied  upon. 
So  he  gave  her  full  charge  of  the  vegetable  garden. 

As  Casimir  knew  little  or  nothing  about  chop- 
ping, it  was  necessary  to  hire  assistance.  By  July, 
however,  ten  acres  had  been  cleared,  and  they  had  a 
logging  "bee."  Early  in  the  morning  the  fallow 
was  astir  with  men  and  oxen.  The  teamster  would 
select  a  log  too  large  to  be  moved  by  the  animals, 
and  around  this  would  commence  to  build  his  log- 
hea]).  All  the  logs  near  at  hand  were  drawn  in  front 
of  the  large  log,  and  the  men  with  handspikes  rolled 
them  one  on  toj)  of  the  other,  till  the  heap  was  about 
eight  feet  high  aid  fifteen  broad.  All  the  rubbish 
was  then  i)icked  ujj.and  in  the  evening  the  completed 
licaps  were  set  fire  to. 

Taken  altogetlicr,  it  was  an  exciting  day  for 
while  the  woods  echoed  with  the  shouts  of  the  men 
and  boys,  the  house  was  made  lively  by  the  presence 
of  the  neighboring  farmers'  daughters,  who  had 
kindly  offered  their  services  to  assist  in  the  cooking 
and  wait  on  the  tables.  But  they  were  rewarded 
when  evening  came  by  having  a  dance  in  the  br  n, 
which  was  gaily  lighted  and  decoiated  for  the  ^  .  ca- 
Moii.  Outside,  file  burning  log-heap.:  blazed  clieeiily, 
and  sent  shafts  of  ruddy  light  through  long  vistas 
of  oak  and  maple,  lighting  up  the  faces  of  the  youths 


ij 


ii; 


CR()U-\i;n   AT   i:lim. 


ir, 


wlio  nro'crrcd  sittin;,'  in  the  ruddy  glow  fo  danciiii; 
to  the  inspiriting  strains  of  tlic  nnisician's  violin. 
Tlicrc  was  little  formality  at  these  rustic  dances. 
The  young  men  app-ared  in  tlie  same  clothes  they 
had  worn  while  logging  in  the  fallow,  but  as  this 
was  an  unavoidable  necessity,  no  one  thought  of 
criticising  them. 

After  the  logs  were  burned,  the  ashes  were  raked 
up  into  heaps  while  hot,  and  taken  to  an  asherv  l)v 
the  side  of  the  river  to  be  made  into  potash,  which 
always  found  a  ready  sale.      The  "rail  cuts"  were 
split  into  quarters,  and  drawn  off  to  the  site  of  the 
tences.     The  fallow  was  then  broken  up,  so  that  bv 
the  last  of  August  it  was  ready  for  sowing  fall  wheat. 
So  the  summer  was  a  very  busy  one  to  theZamoyskis. 
In  the  autumn,  however,  Trema  was  able  to  spend 
more  of  lier   time  in   a  social   way.      Among  other 
amusements,  tliere   were  husking  and  aj)]5le  bees  to 
attend.      The  former  usually  took  place  in  the  barn. 
])ut   for   the    apple    bees    the    young    people    would 
gather  in  the  large  kitchen,  which,  with  its  painted 
floor,   polished   hearth,  glistening    delf,   and  snowy 
curtains,  was  a  i)lcasant  place  for  any  gathering.     In 
the  center  of  the  room  two  or  three  tubs  of  apples 
were  placed.      The  young  men  brought  apple-paring 
machines,  and  soon  the  pared  ajiplcs  were  Hying  into 
recc])tacles ;    while  the  girls   quartered    and   strung 
them  on  long  strings,  and  tlien  they  were  ready  to 
be  Inmg  up  and   dried.      When   the  apples  were  all 
(iiiished,  the  room  was  cleared   up   and  sup])cr  was 
brought  i,;.  after  which  the  rustic  fiddler  appeared, 
and  (Inncmg  waskept  up  till  the  small  hours  of  the 
UK  riiiiiL;. 


h 


IGS 


CR'i\v.\i:i>    AT   F.i.m. 


Ill  ihis  way  the  auluiuii  passed,  .liul  Ticnia  cairic 
to  the  conclusion  that  Hie  in  the  1  I'^h  wns  no  .ucli 
a  very  tr^inj^  experience  as  people  imagined  it  to  be. 
She  was  looking  forward  to  helping  her  fatl  r  niawe 
maple  sugar  in  the  s])ring,  but  her  father  was  not  to 
make  maple  sugar  or  fulfd  .any  of  his  plans. 

As  he  did  not  have  riny  hired  h^  'p,  he  w.-is  much 
outside,  and  suffered  fnjm  exposure  to  the  i  ins  if 
the  late  autumn.  lie  took  a  severe  cold,  whah 
ended  in  a  serious  illness.  ..'eeks  passed  and  he 
giew  no  better.  Then  there  c.imc  ^  day  when  he 
was  more  restless  than  usu.'i!  and  more  racked  with 
pain.  But  as  evfxing  came  on  he  fell  into  a  fitfid 
sleep,  and  Trema  and  her  mother,  seeing  that  he  was 
sleeping,  slipped  away  for  a  much-needed  rest.  lie 
had  been  sleeping  for  an  hour  and  dreaming  of  a 
celestial  choir,  when  there  was  mixed  with  his  dream 
another  sound,  which,  as  he  came  gradually  back  to 
waking  consciousness,  resolved  itself  into  a  chiming 
of  bells,  whi'-h  came  far  and  faint  through  the  snow- 
laden  air.  As  he  listened,  the  voices  of  t  le  bells 
seemed  to  repeat,  as  in  a  refrain,  the  words  of 
the  song  which  they  had  sung  last  New  Year's  Eve: 

"Riiijil    hut  ring  softlyl    oil  ye  midnight  l)i'lls, 
Pass  like  a  (hcaiii  across  the  hills  and  dells. 
Soft  as  the  snow  enfoiding  earthly  things, 
Kails  on  the  night  with  sound  like  angels'  wings." 

He  listened  for  awhile  in  a  state  of  semi-con- 
sciousness, and  then  wondered  dreamily  what  the 
bells  were  chiming  for.  It  must  be  Christmas  Eve! 
Yes,  and  it  /.s  Christmas  Eve,  and  to-morrow  there 
will  be  a  festival  in  the  homeland,  and  once  again,  .-is 
in  childhood's  d.-ivs,  services  will  be   olfered  in  that 


CK'OWM:!)     AT     LLIM.  u,.j 

catliedral  far  away.  Before  liis  closed  eyes  visions  of 
bygone  serviees  came  with  a  vivid  clearness.  He  is 
in  the  cathedral  as  of  old.  The  people  l;ave  gathered 
aad  are  kneeling  together,  and  the  lights  of  nave  and 
transept  shine  on  their  bowed  heads,  on  the  mal- 
achite columns  an.l  shafts  of  lapis-lazuli.  Then  tlic 
l)eople,with  wrapt,  upturned  faces,  watel:  the  priests 
in  their  garments  of  embroidered  gold,  who  throw 
open  the  doors  of  the  ikonostas  and  expose  the  holy 
of  holies  to  their  view.  The  venerable  i)atriarch  lifts 
a  coi)y  of  the  Sacred  \V(jrd  and  bears  it  to  the  centre 
of  the  church,  where  it  is  opened  and  the  reading  of 
the  Word  begins.  The  service  is  ended  at  last,  "the 
priests  again  retire  into  the  holv  of  holies,  the  golden 
gates  are  closed,  and  the  worshippers  melt  silently 
away.     IIow  nice  it  is  to  be  home  once  more  I 

"  No,"  he  murmured  at  last,  wearily,  "  I'm  not  at 

home,  and  I'm  not  o^  church,  but  in  a  rude  log  cabin 

in   a  Canadian   forest,   and   the   trees   are    creaking 

dismally."      Then,  after  a  time,  his  mind  wandered 

again  to  childhood's  days,  and  he  said  soothingly: 

"Never  mind,  mother;    don't  trot  for  your  old 

home.      When  1  am  a  man  I'll  free  Poland' and  we 

Avdl  g(.  and  live  at  the  ])alace,  and  everything  will  be 

as  it  was  when  you  were  a  child;  and  Prince  Adam 

will  be  king.     Won't  he  be  a  noble  king,  mother?" 

Then   the       -ars   pass   as   nothing,  and  he  says, 

"Oh,  mother,   I've   iailed  !      The   dreams   of   mv  life 

were  all  a  mockery!      I  did  not  free    Poland,  and  I 

didn  t  even  retain  your  love;  for  y(>u  did  love  vour 

boy  once,  but  you  didn't  like  my  Miriam." 

Two  hours  more  pass,  and  then  Madame Zamoy. 
ski,  wlio  was  again  by  his  side,  bending  over  him  in 


'.! 


\\\ 


170 


CROWXED    AT    ELIM. 


anxious  ministration, heard  the  one  word  "Miriam." 
And  with  that  name  on  his  Hps,  the  i)oor,  tired  heart 
is  still  forever. 

As  the  bereaved  wife  knelt  by  the  side  o^  that 
loved  form,  and  looked  on  the  closed  eyes  and  (juiet 
hands,  on  the  \\\)s  sealed  with  the  seal  of  the  great 
mystery,  she  longed  to  join  him  in  that  restful  sleep; 
to  lie  still,  like  him,  with  every  task  completed  ;  to 
have  done  forever  \\  ■tii  her  life,  which  woulu  now  be 
one  of  struggle,  and  care,  and  heartache,  and  sorrow. 
Yet  she  diil  not  wish  him  back  ;  for  often,  during  the 
past  r.ionths,  as  she  had  watched  him  bearing  liard- 
shii)S  and  unaccustomed  labor,  she  had  l()t)ked  for- 
ward into  tlie  years  and  shuddered  ;  for  she  saw 
ahead  only  a  long  road  (  .  er  whicli  she  must  plod 
wearily,  and  illumined  by  no  ray  of  light  for  the 
future.  And  then  she  knew  that  he  had  intended 
to  make  so  nnich  of  his  life.  lUit  now,  when  the 
harvest  of  his  years  was  garnered,  it  ;-howed  oidy 
defeat,  and  heartache,  and  poverty ;  with  the  grim 
reaper  laughing  mockingly  as,  with  sickh,'  in  hand, 
he  watched  the  last  light  chaff  of  youthful  dreams 
vanish  f(n-ever.  So,  kneeling  there  beside  him,  siic 
breathed  a  prayer  of  thankfulnes;-.  that  he  would 
never  again  have  to  meet  discouragement  or  failure, 
or  be  called  upon  to  take  up  a  weary  task  or  im;ic- 
customcd  burden.  .\nd  she  knew  that  though  from 
the  world's  standpoint  he  had  failed,  yet  when  the 
liai">  -t  of  his  sou'  lay  witmowed,  such  imperishable 
we.'dth  would  be  found  in  the  golden  grain  of  pa- 
tience, and  meeliness,  and  faith,  and  love,  which  he 
had  always  dis])layed,  that  many  a  more  successful 
life  would  give  its  all  to  possess  a  tithe  of  it. 


-.*^'  , 


1^' 


Ch'OWXLI)     AT     r.I.lM. 


171 


Trcina  was  inconsolable  at  Lbc-  death  of  Ikt 
father.  She  could  not  look  at  the  awful  fact  in  the 
\va_v  which  her  mother  did.  He  was  j,^one  and  her 
life  would  he  empty  without  liim.  lie  who  had 
always  made  the  world  such  a  pleasant  i)lace  for 
her  was  dead  I  And  while  he  had  ^M)ne  out  to  meet 
death,  she  had  l)cen  slee])in^;I  IIow  could  she  sleep 
and  miss  his  last  wor<l,  his  last  smile?  These  were 
her  thoughts  as,  sobbing  convulsively,  she  bent  over 
his  cold  form. 

When  the  fune.al  was  over,  Madame  Zamoyski 
had  leisure  to  think  of  tlie  future.  vSht)uld  she  remain 
on  the  farm,  or  should  she  sell  it,  and  try  to  earn  her 
livelihood  in  some  of  the  callin<;s  open  to  women? 
She  preferred  the  latter  course,  but  tliere  seemed  to 
be  nothing  that  she  W£is  really  fitted  to  do.  So  she 
decided  to  remain  on  the  farm  for  the  })resent,  and 
make  one  more  appeal  to  the  Countess.  If  tliat 
failed,  she  would  allow  Trema  to  marry  David  Mc- 
Glashan.  And  she  believed  that  with  a  little  hired 
h  >lp,  she  would  make  a  tolerably  successful  fannir. 

January  was  drawing  to  a  close,  and  as  Trema 
one  day  wrdked  briskly  homeward  in  the  evening 
twilight,  she  saw  a  distant,  solitary  figure  coming 
towards  her.  At  sight  of  hirn  she  caught  her  breath 
for  something  in  his  glowing  face  and  buoyant  step 
told  her  that  he  had  pleasant  news  for  her. 

"At  last,  my  own  !  "  he  said  when  he  had  reached 
her,  takmg  jjossession  of  her  two  little  gloved  hands. 
"  I  have  just  seen  your  mother,  and  she  no  longer 
objects  ti.  our  marriage.  It  only  remains  for  you  to 
say  when  it  will  take  place." 


172 


CA'oir.vz;:;   at    ui.im. 


Trcma  lonkcd  away  from  liis  radiant  face,  past 
ihcdaik  lir  Wddds  j^dowitij^;  in  ihf  sunset,  and  said: 

"I  tliink  there  is  no  reason  for  delav.  Wliv 
slionid  om-  marriage  n(.t  take  pKaee  in  I'ehruary? 
It  is  a  Ineky  montli," 

"Treina,  Tretna ! "  he  cxehaimed,  witli  mock 
;::ravity,  "I  am  rdraid  yon  will  not  make  a  nnxlel 
minister's  wife.  Vou  will  shock  c\  ery  one  with  vour 
superstitious  nonsense." 

"Well,  perhaps,  you  had  better  marry  Miss 
Hines.  I  am  sure  she  would  jxist  suit  you,  with  her 
sharj)  nose  an.d  goj.,';j;les." 

"  I  think  I  had  l)ettcr  go  back  with  Yf)u,  and  see 
what  your  mother  thinks  of  tlie  wedding  being  next 
month,"  he  said,  igtioring  her  remark  about  Mi>s 
Hines.  So  they  turned  about,  and  walked  swiftU' 
across  the  snow— two  dark  figures  clearly  outlined 
against  the  winter  landseaiK\ 

Tlie  wedding  was  in  the  kirk,  and  1)ut  little  pre- 
paration was  made  for  it.  Trema  wore  a  court 
dress  of  her  mother's,  of  wdiite  Itroeaded  satin,  which 
in  some  way  had  survived  the  various  fortunes  of 
nineteen  years;  and  in  it  she  looked  a  cpieen.  The 
church  had  no  decorations,  no  i..-;hers,  no  wliite  satin 
ril)l)ons  fencing  in  distinguished  guests.  But  the  sun 
shone  brightly  on  the  bride  and  groom,  and  on  the 
hajipy,  smiling  faces  of  the  villagers  and  count rv- 
folk,  who  came  from  far  aid  near,  to  see  the  "  ineeri- 
ister  m.irrit  tae  a  wee  bit  o'  a  lassie,  v.  iia  shud  be  at 
sku'e  for  twa  year  or  mair,"  and  v'l,)  ilocked  aliout 
the  happy  coujjle,  when  the  ceremony  was  ended,  to 
otTer  congratulations  and  every  form  of  happiness. 
Levden    Bell    was    there,    reflecting    in    his   face   his 


ch'()]v\r:ii    .17   r.i.iM. 


ir.T 


pnstor's  Imppiriess;  and  Matthew  Carruth  was 
tlRTc.  liis  rii--c(l  lacf  all  a-low,  ami  for  once  lie 
had  no  word  of  reproach,  hut  laid  his  hand  on  the 
fair  head  of  tiie  hride,  and  reverentlv  said  : 

"The  Lord  make  his  face  to  shine  n])on  thee;  the 
Lord  lift  up  the  licht  o'  His  countenance  ujjon  thee, 
lassie,  an'  j^ie  thee  peace  " 

And  durinjr  it  all,  Trcnia  was  radiantly  and  con- 
fidently happy.       In  tlie  last   few  moments  she  had 
severed  the  tie  which  bound  her  to  her  race,  with  its 
memories   of  gorgeous   j)onip   and    j)owcr,   of  stern 
grandeur,  (jf  heroic  sulTering,  and  i)athos  of  defeat. 
Vet  she  severed  that  tie  freely,  gladly.     lint  as  David 
McGlashan  watched  his  fair,  young  bride  smilinglv 
receive   the    congratulations    of    the   ])lain    count rv 
folk,  his  heart  grew  heavy  with  an  indefinable  fear. 
She  reminded  him  of  some  bird  of  Paradise,  whose 
home  was  not  on    the  prosaic   earth,  but  amid  tlie 
st.ft  splendors  of  a  rainljow-tinted  sunset.      She  did 
noi    seem    to    belong    to    the  common   wcrk-a-d.-iv 
world,   but   to  a  beautiful    world,    where  there  was 
beauty  for  the  eye  and  food  for  the  mind  ;  and  where 
soft    voices   blended   in  cultured   intercourse;   where 
poverty  was  not,  but  where  gateways  bore  armorial 
beirings,  where  halls  were  colonades  of  sculptured 
pillars;  where  ceilings  were  frescoed,  and  walls  were 
tapestried,   and   fountains  sjjarkled   in   a   wealth  of 
greenery.      For   a   moment   tl.ere   was    a   rift  in  the 
glamor  of  romance  which   had   surrounded  him  for 
the  past  few  months,  and  he  realized  that  her  verv 
love  for  him   had   doomed    her   forever   to   a   life  o{ 
daily  sacrifice   in   uncongenial   surroundings.      Dutv 
bade  him  stay  in  Riverside,  while  everv  trait  of  her 


17+ 


CKi)\V\l-l)     AT     I-LIM. 


character,  her  mental  accoinplishinents,  irresistil)1e 
charm  and  '.me(|ualle(l  j^race,  fitted  her  for  a  wider 
and  higher  s|)herc.  The  oUl  distrust  for  *.'d  itself 
upon  him.  Would  si.e  not  grow  weary  of  Ri,  ?rside, 
and  of  him?  TJut  just  then  she  looked  up,  her  eyes 
shining  with  haj)py  confidence  in  him,  and  he  cast  his 
feais  to  the  winds.  He  !iad  no  ground  for  his  fear; 
it  was  only  a  :iiorl)id  fancy ;  in  the  hour  of  his 
marriage  he  would  be  happy. 


CROWXri)     ,\T     El.lM 


CHAPTI-K     XVI. 

THREE  months  had  passed  since  that  Fchruarv 
day— three  months  oluiiinterrupttd  happiness. 
The  peoj.le  of  Riverside  ahnost  idolized  the  fair 
bride  at  the  Manse.  Mrs.  Lindsay,  the  housekeeper, 
who  had  had  misgivings  about  placing  the  reins  ot 
government  in  a  "bairn's"  liands,  had  been  won 
over  by  the  unexpected  knowledge  which  Trema  dis- 
I>layed  in  the  secrets  of  housekeeping;  while Jeanie 
openly  worshipped  her  young  mistress,  and  went 
about  the  house  singing : 

"Ilcr  brow  :s  like  tlic  snaw-drift, 
Her  neck  is  like  the  swan; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest, 
That  'ere  the  sun  shone  on." 

till  the  old  Scotch  favorite  threatened  to  pall  on  .he 
hearers.  The  third  of  May  had  come  round  again, 
and  Trema  was  eighteen.  Madame  Piamoyski,  in  her 
humble  home,  awoke  that  morning  and  remembered 
the  fact.  She  remembered,  too,  the  fete  of  last  year 
and  her  plans  !— they  had  soared  till  they  had  reached 
the  very  throne  of  Russia.  But,  alas',  in  one  year 
every  trace  of  her  castles  in  Spain  had  vanished. 
Both  she  and  Trema  were  doomed  to  live  the  re- 
mainder of  their  lives  on  the  banks  of  the  Grand 
River. 


i 


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170 


Ch'()\V\i;n     AT     ELIM. 


"/^nd  Trcma  is  cviilently  contented  to  sta\'  here," 
mused  Madame  Zanioyski.  "Trema,  around  u  lioni 
all  my  plans  have  centered,  is  satisfied  with  this  little 
out-of-the-way  YiUa;^^.  It  is  a  good  thing  she  has 
not  the  ambitious  nature  of  her  mother." 

Trema  meanwhile,  little  caring  for  all  those 
shattered  air-castles,  was  up  with  the  l)irds  and  out 
in  the  woods  gathering  a  boutpiet  of  spring  flowers 
for  David.  He  found  them  an  hour  later.  He  had 
been  at  the  bedside  of  a  sick  villager  till  after  mid- 
night, and  the  svmshine  was  shining  ])riglitly  through 
the  chinks  of  the  lattice  when  he  awoke.  Tlie  room 
had  been  darkened  that  he  might  not  be  disturbed, 
but  he  fancied  that  he  detected  a  perfume  of  violets, 
and  put  out  his  hand. 

"Yes,  it  is  violets;  and  the  first  of  the  season. 
She  has  been  out  to  the  woods  and  gathered  them. 
It  is  her  birthday,  and  I  should  have  got  them  for 
her;  but  it  is  just  like  my  Trema  to  bring  them  to 
me.  But  what  is  tliat  ?  The  piano !  Music  on  the 
Sabbath!  Wiiat  will  Mrs.  Lindsay  say?  What  will 
the  people  think  ?  " 

He  dressed  hurriedly'.  And  what  was  she  play- 
ing? Not  a  psalm  tune, certainly  ;  but  the  strangest, 
weirdest  air.  .\nd  then  the  words  !  He  stood  by  the 
window  and  listened. 

" 'Tis  a  music  wild  and  sweet,  voice  of  Polish  nation, 
Which  preserves  her  mcniury  for  each  generation ; 
Oid\'  from  the  wild  flowers  now  they  their  splendor  borrow. 
Ah,  what  he;irt  that  knows  their  fate,  feels  no  pang  of 
sorrow  ?  " 

The  sad  strains  of  the  pathetic  song  floated  up 
to  the  minister,  and  dashed  about  him  till  he  seemed 


ij 


CROWMW     AT    ELIM. 


177 


like  some  ship- wrecked  mariner  on  some  lone  isle  i)f 
the  sea  with  billows  of  hartnony  surging  al)out  him. 
He  forgot  to  question  what  Mrs.  Lindsay  would  say, 
or  what  the  people  would  think.  He  only  knew  that 
an  agony  of  sorrow  was  breathed  iii  the  words  o< 
the  song,  and  that  it  ended  at  last  in  a  sol).  Trcnia 
had  not  forgotten  Poland.  Greatly  disturlied,  he 
hastened  down  to  the  drawing-room.  She  was  still 
seated  at  the  piano,  in(\  was  resting  her  head  on  her 
hand.  She  looked  up  as  he  entered,  and  her  c'_vcs 
were  full  uf  tears. 

"  You  have  eome  to  seolil  me  for  singing  that 
song — I  see  it  by  your  face.  I  know  I  am  a  baby  to 
cry,  but  it  is  my  first  birthday  without  dear  papa. 
I  was  thinking  of  all  the  happ3'  days  we  had  spent 
together,  and  then  I  thought  of  his  troubles,  and  the 
tears  would  not  stay  back.  Rut  I  will  not  be  a  bain- 
any  more." 

David  McGlashan  forgot  the  admonition  he  had 
been  about  to  administer,  and  only  said  :  "  It  is  not 
customar}-  to  play  any  kind  of  music  on  the  Sabbath 
da}'  in  Riverside.  This  piano  has  never  before  been 
opened  on  the  Lord's  Day." 

"Has  it  not?      Well,  you  must  not  bid  me  close 

It  now,  for   I   want  to   play  something  I  composed 

for  you  last  night.      The  poet  who  wrote  the  lines 

must  have  had  you  in  his  mind  when  he  composed 

them." 

She  plaA-ed  a  charming  little  prelude  and  then 
sang: 

"Oh,  well  for  me  life's  rarest  gifts  and  best 
Came  slow  and  late. 
Because  my  soul  hath  leaned  on  Jesus'  breast, 
And  learned  to  wait. 


178  CRoWXnO     AT     ELIM. 

"For  (lavs  of  lonely  toil,  and  huinljled  pridt, 
And  baffled  will; 
For  hope  deterred,  and  scltish  prayer  denied, 
1  ihatik   Him  stdl. 

"If  drrk  or  I'riir,  life's  sunset  liour  sh.-ill  l)e, 
I  cannot  tell ; 
I  know  llic  Lord,  my  Shepherd,  leadedi  me, 
And  all  is  ^\ell." 


When  the  hist  sweet  note  had  ended  the  minister 
was  leaning  over  the  piano  in  nn  attitude  of  reverie, 
but  all  tluit  he  said  was,  "Will  you  please  sing  it 
again?"  And  the  saered  song  was  sung  again. 
Trcnia  jjlayetl  on,  anil,  after  a  time,  he  found  himself 
singing  with  her  the  closing  stanzas  of  the  twenty- 
fourth  Psalm,  to  tlie  tune  of  St.  Georges,  Edinljurgh. 

Mrs.  Lindsay  was  not  unoljservant  of  what  was 
passing,  aaid  vented  her  vrath  out  to  Jranie. 

"  Was  there  ever  sic  goings  on  in  a  Manse?  I'-irst 
mv  lady  rises  at  five  o'clock  on  a  Sabbath  morning, 
an'  gaes  racing  around  through  the  woods  like  a 
bairn;  then  comes  liame  to  sing  heathenish  songs, 
an'  desecrate  the  Manse  wi'  unholy  soonds  o'  music. 
An'  what'il  the  minister  say  tae  it  all,  thinks  I.  Na 
doot  he'll  be  sair  vexed.  But  I  niicht  hae  spared 
mysel'  the  trouble  o'  thinkin'  aboot  it,  for  my  lady 
has  bewitched  him  ;  an'  if  he  isna  hel[)in'  her  tae  pro- 
fane the  Sabbath  himself!  " 

"  Mistress  McGlashan  would  not  play  the  piano 
on  the  Sabl)ath  if  she  thought  it  wrong,"  said  Jeanie, 
speaking  up  in  flefcnce  of  her  beloved  mistress. 
"  When  she  sang  I  thought  of  the  angels  singing 
round  about  the  throne  in  Heaven;  and  as  for  the 
minister  profaning  the  Sabbath— just  listen  to  tiiatl" 


C'AV)ir.\7;/;     ,17"    HLIM.  179 

In  the  minister's  fine  tenor,   oanie  tlie  <ir.LsLiun: 

•'Hut  who  is  He  that  is  the  King— the  Kin-  of^Ujryl 
Who  is  tliis?" 

Anc  then  the  two  voices  were  lieard  in  response: 

"  I'vtii  that  snnc  Lord,  that  prcat  in  might. 
And  strong  in  battle  is." 

And  they  listened  till  the  insj>irin<:r  notes  of  the 
coda  had  ended  in  the  last  amtn,  and  then  Jeanie 
looked  up  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  saying: 

"Yoti  think  music  on  the  Sabbath  is  wicked.  I 
think  it  is  grand.  Such  music  is  fit  to  i)e  plaved  in 
Heaven." 

It  was  the  next  morning  tliat  Trema,  standing 
by  the  window,  saw  a  lady  walking  swiftly  along 
the  road  and  up  the  avenue  to  the  Alanse.  Afar  off, 
Trema  recognized  her  mother,  for  MadameZamoyski 
walked  with  a  dignity  that  sorrow  had  not  lessened, 
nor  ]K>verty  and  hard  work  taken  away.  Trema 
ran  out  to  meet  her.  and  looked  wonderingly  at 
the  radiant  smile  and  flushed  face. 

"Such  news,  my  daughter!"  were  her  first  words. 
"I  have  just  had  a  letter  from  grandmamma,  and 
she  wants  yfui— you  aiil  I— to  go  at  once  to  St. 
Petersburg.  Tlie  Count  is  dead— died  three  years 
ago— and  Ivan  was  thrown  from  his  horse  and  died 
in  a  few  hours— such  a  horribly  sudden  death!  The 
Countess  is  beginning  to  get  quite  feeble.  Of  course, 
I  am  sorry  for  that,  but  at  her  time  of  life  it  is  only 
natural  that  she  should  begin  to  feel  the  weight  of 
years.  It  seems  she  felt  your  father's  death  very 
dec]Dly,  despite  her  apparent  coldness,  and  she  wishes 
to  have  Casiniir's  child  with  her  to  the  last." 


ISO 


Ch'cWXrf)     .\T     ELIM. 


"  T'nclc  Ivan  dead  I"  said  Trcnia  in  an  awt'-stnick 
whisper,  as  if  she  were  just  hegitininjj;-  to  ^^rasj)  tlie 
meaning  of  her  niotlier's  words;  "I  ean  scarcely 
realize  it.  It  seenis  liard  to  imagine  him  lyiiig  cold 
in  death — he  who  was  so  playful  and  witty.  He  was 
always  kind  to  me  and  I  liked  nim.  though  he  and 
])ai)a  never  seemed  to  get  on  very  well.  Po(>r  grand- 
mamma! What  a  trial  to  lose  her  two  sons  just 
after  the  Count's  death;  though, truly, his  death  will 
relieve  her  of  a  great  many  cares.  But  tell  me,  docs 
grandmamma  want  us  *^o  go  and  live  with  her  for 
an  indefinite  period  ?  " 

"That  is  the  idea.  She  wants  you  to  remain 
with  her  as  long  as  she  lives.  She  has  quite  set  her 
heart  on  3'our  going.  So  anxious  is  she  to  have  you 
c  )me,  that  she  says  she  will  divide  all  the  property' 
ecpialh'  between  3'ou  and  your  cousin,  Ivan.  For 
Count  Stroganoff  left  her  very  well  off,  indeed.  If 
3'ou  do  not  go,  ^'ou  will  receive  nothing." 

"But,  mamma,  she  does  not  know  that  I  am 
married.     I  cannot  leave  David." 

"Do  not  be  foolish,  child!  Your  husband  will 
have  to  spare  yon  for  six  months  or  a  year,  perhaps. 
But  he  w'ill  not  mind  so  much.  See  how  he  has  lived 
here  and  worked  for  his  people  without  3'ou  for  five 
years ;  it  will  only  be  the  same  as  it  was  before  he 
married  you.  Then  the  Countess  must  be  quite  up 
in  years  now.     She  must  be  seventj'-six  at  least." 

"  Mamma,  I  should  like  very  much  to  see  grand- 
mamma; but  I  do  not  like  monev  well  encuigh  to 
make  it  the  price  of  leaving  David  for  a  long  time. 
So,  if  he  CTinnot  take  a  holida\-  and  go  too,  then  I 
shall  remain  at  home." 


Cn'f)w.\}-n   AT   i:i.i\f. 


1S1 


"Trenia,  you  have  hc-coiiic  licadstroiig  ami 
thoroii<:lily  intractable.  It  would  be  iuipossible  (mi- 
liim  to  y^o  for  an  indefinite  period,  unless  lie  resi-nc<l 
liis  charge  alto<;ether,  which  I  am  (luile  sure  he  woidd 
not  do.  And  can  you  not  understand,  that  if  you 
refuse  to  p;o,  Ivan  Stroganoff  <;ets  every tliin-,^?  '  Of 
course,  that  would  be  immaterial  to  you,  no  doubt, 
asyou  ha'e  ac(mifortablehome;  but  think  what  a 
(lifTerence  money  would  niake  to  me.  It  is  not  a 
pie.- -an^  thin<j^,  I  suppose,  for  you  to  see  your  mother 
drud^uig  as  she  has  for  the  past  year." 

"Certainly  not,  mamma.  It  is  a  f^-^reat  trouble 
to  me  that  you  are  obliged  to  do  without  the  com- 
forts to  which  you  have  been  accustomed." 

"  Well  then,  be  reasonable.  Ry  staying  with  the 
Countess  for  a  time,  you  will  rot  only  be  made 
wealthy  yourself,  but  the  money  thus  obtained  will 
place  me  in  an  independent  position  and  lift  me  above 
a  life  of  worry  and  care,  which  should  be  some  con- 
sideration to  3'ou." 

"It  seems  that  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go,"  Trema 
answered  slowly.  "How  I  wish  David  was  here, 
but  he  has  gone  to  a  meeting  of  the  Presbytery  and 
will  not  be  back  till  evening." 

"Oh,  of  course,  David  will  take  a  sensible  view 
of  the  matter.  He  will  be  perfectly  willing  for  you 
to  go.  But  if  he  does  not  return  till  evening,  I  shall 
not  stay,  as  I  have  many  things  to  look  after.  If  we 
do  go,  we  will  sail  from  New  York  on  the  fifteenth; 
so  that  we  have  not  many  days  to  prepare  for  the 
journey." 

Trema  passed  the  day  in  a  state  of  feverish  ex- 
citement.     One  moment  she  was   thinking  of  how 


182 


c-A''Mr.v/;/)    .\T    i:Li\f. 


loiifly  David  would  he,  nnd  the  next,  she  was  re- 
proaching herself  for  forgetting  her  duty  to  lier 
mother.  But  she  came  to  a  decision  at  hist.  She 
wouhl  go  to  St.  Petersburg  and  try  to  persuade  the 
Countess  to  settle  an  annuity-  on  her  mother.  As 
Casimir  Z.iinoyski's  wife,  surel\'  she  was  entitled  to 
something.  For  herself  slie  did  not  care;  her  wants 
were  fully  supi^lied.  In  that  way  she  would  he  ahle 
to  return  to  Riverside  in  four  or  five  months  at  the 
latest.  And  David,  she  knew,  would  not  care  for 
her  to  he  away  longer  than  that.  Having  come  to 
a  decision,  she  was  ahle  to  wait  more  tranquilly  for 
her  hushand's  return. 

He  came  running  up  the  steps  in  a  glad  way.  It 
was  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  her  there  to  welcome 
him..  He  did  not  like  to  he  ahsent  from  her  even  for 
a  day.  She  told  him  at  once  of  the  death  t)f  the 
Count  and  of  the  tragic  fate  of  her  I'ncle  Ivan,  hut 
she  did  not  mention  going  to  Russia  just  yet.  He 
seem.ed  so  happy,  and  she  knew  he  would  not  like 
the  idea  of  her  going.  So  over  the  teacu])s  he  enter- 
tained her  with  all  that  had  happened  in  town;  of 
the  subjects  which  had  come  uj)  for  discussion  at  the 
Presbytery  and  of  their  settlement.  But  Trema 
listened  rather  abstractedlv,  for  she  was  wonderintr 
how  she  could  best  tell  him  of  her  intended  trip. 

"  David,"  she  said  at  last,  "  where  do  you  intend 
going  for  a  holiday  this  summer?  " 

".\  holiday!  I  had  not  thought  of  it.  To  tell 
the  truth,  I  have  not  taken  a  holiday — a  real  holidav 
— since  I  came  to  Riverside,  though  the  Session  have 
often  urged  me  to  do  so.  But  as  I  had  no  friends  in 
Canada  outside  of  this  locality,  and  it  did  not  strike 


Cknw\i:i,     .17-     i:i,iy,_  1^., 

nu- ,-is  ])ai-tic-tilrirly  iuliiL'stin-  t(,  ^o  roaiiiiii;^^  ahouL 
the  country  l)y  iiiysclf.  I  just  stayed  licir.  Ccrtaiulv, 
wc  will  take  a  holiday  this  suniuicr." 

■'  I  was  not  thinkin<,^  of  myself,  for  I  am  afraid 
wc  shall  not  he  al)le  to  take  a  lioliday  togctiier  tiiis 
year.  Grandmamma  has  sent  word  that  she  wishes 
very  much  to  see  me,  and  she  says  if  I  ^o  and  visit 
lier  she  will  leave  me  half  of  her  property.  I  would 
not  entertain  the  idea  of  goin<,^  even  f(jr  a  moment, 
were  it  not  for  mamma,  but  she  does  need  the  monev 
so   badly.      You  know  grandmamma  does  not  like 

my   mother;    she  scarcely  tolerates  her  because 

well,  simply  1)ecause  mamma  is  not  patrician.  I  am 
worthy  her  consideration,  you  understantl,  l)ecause 
I  am  her  grandchild.  Now,  1  did  hoi)e  that  you 
would  take  a  trip  this  summer— to  the  Lakes"  or 
Niagara,  or  down  the  St.  Lawrence— as  the  time 
would  seem  to  pass  more  quickly,  and  I  shall  i)rob- 
ably  return  in  Sei)tember." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  it  is  necessary  for  you  to  go? 
Is  there  no  other  way  ?  " 

"Ves,  David;   I  have  thought  it  all  over,  and  I 
believe  it  is  my  duty  to  go." 
"  When  do  you  sail  ?  " 
"May  15th." 
"May  15th!    So  soon  ?  " 

"It  is  rather  soon,  but  mamma  has  decided  to 
go  then." 

He  sat  silent  for  a  while.  The  pleasure  had 
suddenly  gone  out  of  the  beautiful  May  evening. 
He  had  an  unaccountable  aversion  to  St.  Petersburg 
and  all  pertaining  to  it.  He  felt  himself  growing 
nritable.    It  was  a  mercenary  thing  to  visit  Countess 


;s+ 


ck(>\v\f:n    .\  T    r.i.iM. 


Strogaiioff  just  to  j,at  iiiom-y,  I'ait  lie  luu'w  nuitc 
will  tli.-it  TriMii.i  w  .-IS  not  inerceiiary  ;  that  she  truly 
lovjd  Ikt  ^M-andniMilitr;  that  if  the  Countess  had 
been  i)oor,  and  sick,  and  loiR-ly,  she  would  have^^'oiie 
to  her  at  once,  and  would  have  cheered  lur  by  the 
sunshine  of  her  presence.  Hut  the  Cwuntc  s  was 
not  poor  nor  l)nely.  She  had  relatives  in  St.  IVters- 
l)ur<;,  and  lifeloni^  frienils  anil  trusted  attendants; 
while  he  had  oidy  Trenia.  But  there  was  Madame 
Zamoyski  to  he  considered.  Certainly,  under  the 
circinnstances,  it  was  very  selfis'i  of  him  to  oltject  to 
Trema's  jjjoinj.:.  Well,  he  lirul  had  to  make  sacrifices 
all  his  life,  and  no  doubt  he  would  have  to  go  on 
making  them.  Having  come  to  this  somewhat  ])hil- 
oso])hical  conclusion,  he  entered  at  once  with  zest 
into  the  arrangements;  and  Trcma,  seeing  that  he 
did  not  feel  so  badly  as  she  had  anticipated,  became 
quite  reconciled  and  even  animated  over  her  intended 
trip,  and  the  hours  flew  by  on  wings. 

On  Wednesday  morning,  the  housekee])er  received 
word  that  her  sister  was  seriously  ill,  and  she  was 
given  leave  of  absence  for  a  few  weeks.  As  Jeanie 
lived  in  the  same  ])art  of  the  country,  she  was 
allowed  to  go  home,  too,  as  she  would  be  able  to 
travel  with  Mrs.  Lindsay.  So  the  minister  and  his 
bride  had  to  make  final  preparations  without  any 
assistance. 

David  McGlashan  accompanied  the  ladies  to  New 
York,  and  went  with  them  to  Sandy  Hook.  The 
good-byes  were  said,  and  he  boarded  a  tug  to  return 
to  the  city.  .\s  he  ste])ped  on  botird  the  little  craft, 
the  full  burden  of  his  loneliness  fell  upon  him  for  the 
first  time.      She  was  really  gone;  ever}'  moment  the 


M,  J' 


1«i 


CROW  si:  n   w   i:i.im.  1^5 

distance  was  itiertasitiy;  hctwccn  tlicm.     IK-  w  atclicd 
tlic  boat  until  it  was  a  mere  speck  on  llic  horizon, 
and  then  with  a  heavy  heart  he  turned  his  face  citv- 
ward,  antl  watched  the  coast  as  thev  passed  aloti" 
There  was  Stateii  Island  rislu-  from  the  waves, 
;;reen   and    beautiful,    with    a    few    cotta;,a's   on    the 
beach  and  on  the  crest   of  the  hill       But  his  vision 
grew  rlini  as  he  i^azed,  and  instead  of  the  fair  island 
he  saw  a    Manse  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  \>iili  its 
shades   drawn,  its   doors  closed,  and  no  one  on  the 
veranda   to    welcome  him.    Just  then  an  ocean  liner 
steamed   past   them,    hailing  from   Germany.      The 
passengers    had   crowded    the   decks,  eager  to  get  a 
look  at  the   ulw,  strange  country,  and  they  waved 
their  handkerchiefs  joyfully  and  sent  glad  cheers  to 
the  passengers  of  the  little  tug,  so  rejoiced  were  they 
that  tlie  end    of  their  journey  ha<l  come.     And  then 
David    McGlashan    thought   of  a    day    four   months 
hence,  when  another  ship  would  sail  into  t'-e  harbor, 
and  there  would  be  a  face  looking  eagerly  out;   ])ut 
the  lips  would  be  trembling  with  joy  instead  of  grief, 
the  blue  e\es    woidd    no   longer  l)e  shaded  with  wet 
lashes,  and  all  the  world  would  wear  a  holidav  look, 
because  Trema  had  come.     Thinking  thus  he  stepi)ed 
upon  the  pier,  passed  along  by  Cattle  ikirdcn,  and 
found  his   way   among   the  crowds   that   thronged 
Broadway;   ])ut   in  all  the  faces  he  saw  oidy  one— a 
face  framed  in   IhilTy   gob'  n  hair,  whose  eyes  were 
shaded  with  wet  lashes. 

He  arrived  at  Riverside  m  a  drenching  rain,  and 
made  his  way  from  the  stage  up  to  his  home  under 
dripping  trees.  Mrs.  Lindsay  and  Jeanie  had  not  yet 
returned,  and  the  Manse  had  a  closcd-up  appearance. 


1««r, 


CRowsrn    \T    i:i.i\f. 


IR'  k't  liim-cir  ill  at  t!ic  sido  door,  and  tin- interior 
of  thi;  house  was  not  more  cliccrtul  than  llii-  outside 
hctokened.  Ivverywliere  were  traee><  of  their  hurried 
departure.  On  the  talile  in  the  diiiin:^-r()oni  were 
the  remains  of  their  breakfast.  to,i,'ether  with  the 
unwashed  dishes.  He  looked  around  for  sometliiu!^ 
to  cat,  but  nfter  :i  three  weeks'  absence  there  was 
nothini^  eatable,  so  he  went  out  a^^ai.i  to  the  viUa^^'e 
stori-  and  obtained  sn])i)Hes. 

():i  his  return  he  went  upstairs  to  find  a  dry 
coat.  An  air  of  disarram^^enieiit  pervaded  this  apart- 
ment, also,  but  its  very  disorder  brought  Trenia's 
presence  stranj^jely  near  him.  ('ioini,''  to  the  win<low 
to  raise  the  shade,  In  step]ied  on  a  slipper— a  little 
sliopor  with  eoqnettish  heel  and  dainty  bow.  He 
])ieke(l  it  tip  as  if  he  had  trampled  on  some  live  thln<_r. 
In  the  el<)lhes  ])ress  was  her  ri  lin;^  ha])it  with  the 
veil  eaM_;'il  U]>  on  t!ic  hat,  just  as  she  had  w:)rn  it 
the  <l,'iy  they  had  last  ridden  toi^ether.  On  the 
dresser  w  is  a  ])air  of  ;^Ioves,  sliniitly  soiled,  and 
evidently  discarded  at  the  last  moment;  there,  too, 
were  some  violets — the  violets  she  had  .gathered  that 
May  mornitiLj  when  neither  had  thouLrht  of  sejjar- 
ation.  He  left  the  room  hurriedly;  the  very  air 
seemed  to  stitle  him. 

He  went  dowii  stairs  and  ])repared  some  supper, 
but  wh.en  he  Scat  down  to  eat  his  meal  in  solitary 
st.ate  he  discovered  that  he  had  no  apjietite,  and  he 
rose  from  the  table  in  a  short  time  and  went  t(^  his 
study.  Stn'ely  it  would  be  more  homelike  there! 
But  as  he  ojiened  tlic  door,  a  breath  of  d mi]),  cliill 
air  nv't  him  ;  the  ashes  f)f  the  <,''r.'ite  were  strewn 
over   the    tender;    a   work   basket   stood    by   a    low 


CKowxnn    17    i:i.i.\f. 


1^7 


rocki  r,  :niil  I  •ii;^  (»i)«:ii,  lac^'  downuai  .Is,  (ui  tlic  uii- 
fmislud  ciiihr.jidc'-v,  was  a  daintily  h.mnd  voluir.o 
oi  Andre  CliOnicr.  lie  i,d.iiiccd  al  the  oikii  i)agc 
and  read  : 

"Smiis  parents,  sans  nttiis,  et  sans  condtoycrs, 
Oulilic  MJi-  la  tiTic.  el  Unu  ilc  Imi^  Ics  iijiciis, 
I'ar  los  va^iifs  i«U'  sur  cittr  ilc  faioiiohf. 
Lf  (l()u\  tK.in  (Ii-  la  France  c-^t  snivciu  vi,r  ma  liomhe." 

Had  tlif  sad  w^rds  oftlic  nnfortunatc  poei  appealed 
to  Treina  ?  Coidd  it  he  that  she.  too.  felt  far  (roin 
lier  own  npoii  :i  hinely  shore,  and  was  slie  hunirerin;^ 
tor  the  homeland  and  lor  her  people?  He  turned  the 
l)a^es  and  read  : 

"<l  fear,  when  thv  soul  inl.i  lu-rs  is  ^n  hotind, 
That  to  te.ir  it  away  would  inllict  a  (leci>  wound. 
When  her  smile  seems  as  true  as  the  sun's  loving  li^lit, 
Rcnicmhcr,  the  sa;^cs  had  reason  to  write: 

'O  woman  li. is  ever  inconstant  been  known. 
And  will)  thinketh   to  liind  her  soul  fast  to  his  own, 
lie  thinketh  to  hold   the  wild   winds  in  his  hand. 
And  to  write  deathless  words,  by  ihe  waves,  in  the  sand.*" 

David  McCilashan  elosed  the  hook  impatientlv. 
That  vas  not  true  of  Trema.  Shonhl  all  the  world 
he  inconstant,  she,  at  least,  would  remain  faithful. 
She  ni!,j;liL  he  lonely;  she  mi;j^ht  Ion-,'  for  cultured 
society;  for  all  the  pleasures  of  a  life  of  luxury— he 
half  feared  that  she  did— hut  untrue  she  would  never 
he— never.  He  turned  to  his  desk.  It  was  piled  hi<„'h 
with  papers  and  notes.  He  had  made  the  notes  pre- 
l)aratory  to  writing  a  sermon,  hut  he  had  forgotten 
the  conneclion,  and  they  seemed  a  lot  of  meaningless 
sentences.  He  had  been  away  three  weeks,  and  it 
seemed  three  months.      It  was  an  effort  to  take  up 


I!' 


ISS 


Ch'nwxnn    AT    i:i.iM. 


his  work  aLrnin  just  where  he  had  dropped  it.  After 
tryinj^  vainly  to  mai^e  some  kind  of  order  out  of  the 
chaos,  he  slioved  it  all  away  at  last— papers  and 
books  and  notes,  and  his  thoughts  reverted  to  the 
one  engrossing  theme— Trema's  absence.  After  all, 
he  had  only  to  live  out  those  four  months  a  moment 
at  a  time;  they  must  end  at  last,  and  when  he 
should  go  out  and  meet  his  people,  their  troubles 
and  their  joys  would  make  him  forget,  and  he  would 
be  surprised  at  the  way  the  time  would  pass.  So 
he  tried  to  reason  himself  into  a  brighter  mood  ; 
but  a  weight  was  on  his  heart  that  would  not  be 
reasoned  away,  and  he  had  to  acknowledge  that  it 
was  not  the  four  months'  absence  that  he  feared,  but 
some  other  trouble,  as  yet  vpgue  and  intangible  but 
aone  the  less  dreadful.  A  premonition  of  coming 
evil  had  come  to  him  that  day  when  he  had  spoken  to 
Casimir  Zamoyski  about  Trema;  it  had  oppressed 
him  in  the  very  hour  of  his  marriage,  and  it  loomed 
before  him  now  — a  shadow  mountain,  indistinct, 
ominous,  terrible.  So  he  sat  by  his  desk,  a  sorrow- 
ful bent  figure,  with  his  head  bowed  dejectedly  in 
his  hands. 


'A'O'.'.-A'Z;/;     .5  7'     LLIM. 


189 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

MVXY  weary  weeks  passed  before  the  postmaster 
lianded  David  McGlashan  a  letter  with  an 
interesting  looking  envelope,  and  with  a 
friendly  nod  to  the  customers  in  the  store  the  min- 
ister hastened  out  along  the  river  bank  till  he  came 
to  a  secluded  spot,  where  he  opened  the  precious 
letter  and  read : 

Dolce  far  Niente. 
Petrofskoi  Ostkof.  June  24th. 
Dearest : 

Don't  I  know  how  you  have  been  watching  for 
a  letter  from  me  for  weeks  and  weeks?  I  can 
fancy  I  see  the  look  of  disappointment  which  will 
cross  your  patient  face  when  there  is  no  letter  with 
a  foreign  postmark. 

Did  you  receive  my  letter  via  Augtista,  Maine? 
On  May  27th,  a  ship  passed  close  to  us— so  close 
that  we  could  hear  the  captain  speak.  Fancy  how 
strange  it  sounded  to  us  who  had  not  heard  a  voice 
fcr  twelve  days,  except  those  on  our  own  ship.  The 
ship  was  bound  for  A  jgusta,  and  a  small  boat  was 
launched  and  our  mail  taken  to  the  captain.  I  had 
written  the  letter  to  you,  not  in  the  least  expecting 
such  good  luck  as  to  meet  a  homeward  bound  ship 
in  mid-ocean,  but  I  was  just  as  lonely  as  lonely  could 


190 


Ch'i>A-\j:i)     AT     i:L!M_ 


bo  for  veil  a:id  home  and  Riverside;  and  so  I  wrote 
a  httle  every  day,  and  i  was  deliglited  when  the 
opportunity  came  of  sending  it  to  you.  No  doubt 
you  have  received  it  before  this. 

Grandmamma  met  us  when  we  arrived,  and  gave 
me  two  frosty  touches  on  either  clieek  ;  but  her  eyes 
were  shining  with  a  gh.dne.ss  which  lar  manner  did 
not  express.      Poor  granchnamma!      She  shuts  her 
kchngs   uj)  so,  and  few   see   beneath   tlie   surface   so 
she  gets   the    credit  of  being  cold  and  incapaljle  of 
fechng,  when  her  memory  is  a  storehouse  of  broken 
h(;pes,  and  her  heart  is  a  fountain  of  h)ve;  though, 
alas!  too  often  the  fountain  is  covered  with  a  coat- 
ing of  ice.      As   we  rolled   along  in   the   hands.nne 
eciujpage,  gramlmamma  kept  up  a  running  comment 
on  my  changcl  appearance.     It  seemed  incredil)le  to 
her  that  I  should  have  changed  from  a  little  g-rl  to 
a   woman   in   seven   years.      She    was  disappointed 
too,  that  I  was  married  (that  is  1)ecause  she  doesn't 
know   you,   dear).       She    had    some    verv    brilliant 
match  arranged  for  me,  and  so,  of  course.'hcr  castles 
m  Spain  fell  to  the  ground.     Her  little  e.Kcianiaiions 
sometm-.es  in  French,  sometimes  in  Russian     unused' 
me,  but  I  let  mamma  answer   all  her  (luestion.s,  for 
my  attention    was  absorbed  in  the  glittering  shops 
and  miles  and  miles  of  great  houses  through  which 
we   were  passing.       It  was  dear  old  St.  Petersl)ur- 
still— bustling,     bewildering,    .lazzling.       The    same 
wonderful  world  out  of  which  I  dropped  eight  years 
ago.      The   Palace,  too,  when  we  had  anTved'  was 
the  same  dear  place,  filled   a.    it  is  from  end  to  end 
with   memories   of  my   childhood.      If  I  ,ni,r],t   j„^t 
enjoy  it  quietly,  and  had  you  by  mv  side,  how  happv 


CA'r)ir.v/:/)    17    i:lj\t. 


101 


I  slidul']  1)L'I  p,nt  since  CDiiiin;;  I  li.ivo  been  cn<'-a<;c'<l 
in  llie  intercstin*^,  thrillin.;,'  husiness  of  receiving  calls, 
and  trvinj^  to  sav  soniethinu^  in  a  jjolished,  ele,t,^-int 
way  in  a  language  I  have  almost  forgotten,  and  to 
I)e()j)le  wlio  don't  care  a  jot  for  nie.  I  niig'nt  return 
to  ol)scnrity  to-morrow  and  it  would  not  make  a 
ripple  on  the  surface  of  St.  Petersburg's  social  life. 
But  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to  grandmamma  la  Coni- 
tcsse  to  see  me  launched  in  society,  and  so  I  must 
submit  to  it  for  her  sake. 

Vou  will  see  by  my  address  that  we  are  at  the 
Islands.  We  stayed  only  a  few  days  in  town.  I 
su;)p()se  you  are  wondering  why  f  did  not  write 
immediately  on  my  arrival,  but  I  looked  uj)  the 
dates  of  sailing,  and  found  that  my  letter  would 
Uwt  go  till  June  27th.  I  know,  also,  wlien  a  letter 
slior.ld  arrive  from  you,  and  shall  be  looking  foi  it 
anxiously;  so  don't  forget,  in  the  multiplicity  of 
ministerial  duties,  to  write  to  me.  And  please  tell 
me  evcrytliing— how  Mrs.  Lindsay  is  getting  along, 
now  that  she  is  at  the  helm  again;  and  if  Jeanie 
sings  a  new  song,  or  if  she  sings  at  all;  where  the 
vSunday-school  is  going  for  its  picnic,  and  if  Rob])ie 
Strachan  came  up  for  the  paper  helmet  which  I  made 
him.  I  put  it  in  the  top  drawer  of  the  sideboard; 
the  little  fellow  would  l)e  disappointed  if  you  did 
not  know  anything  about  it.  There  is  a  flag  in  the 
drawer  for  him,  too.  I  fancy  I  see  him  strutting  up 
and  down  with  it  over  liis  shoulder. 

Since  I  came  I  have  been  renewing  my  acquaint- 
ance with  the  servants,  to  mamma's  great  annoy- 
ance. She  says  that  she  cannot  conceive  wlicre  I 
get  my   plebian   tastes.      The  servants   are  all  here 


192 


c'AVMr.v/;/;    at    f.i.im. 


l.c^l  two  vcars  a;,.,.      II,  ,vas  a  vcrv  slatdv  p.rso,, 
'-"t  kuul  hearted,  and  to  me.  .on,e  ten  vca..      -o    a 

Z:  h     Tf  "^'  ""'"'"^'  ^'^^-     -^^  incl.lent  ;rr   nv 
h      hood   days    was   brought  vividly   before  n,e  on 

t  e^b  "•''  '"'"'''  "'""  '  ""^''^^^  ^  --^--"  vase 
and  ve  "?  '  •"'"•  '  "'-^^  ''^'''  ^  ti.creabont. 
a       ue  uere  tear.ng  np  and  down  the  sah>n-Xero 

to  be  permitted   among  the  costlv  bric-a-brac  of'^a 

'rawmg  room.      In   our  play.   I   stumbled   ad  fell 

a^ams    a  large  vase,  and   it   was  ju.c  totted    L  to 

rum  when  grandmanuna  caught  it'   She  ga   e  me  a 

Aero  m  the  salon.  I  remembered  the  occasion  verv 
-v.d ly.  as  ,t  was  the  only  time  that  she  ever  spo  e 
crossh-  to  me.  I  wondered  then  at  her  caring  t 
much  for  a  mere  vase.  I  did  not  wonder  t  -!lav 
when  I  exammed  it.  It  is  in  cloisonne  and  g i h 
on.e,  and  us  decorated  with  scenes  from  the!  e 
of  Conolanus.  It  belongs  to  the  Louis  XVIII  period 
and  must  h.-.^-^  ,^,.^t  „  i  .  .  ^  penoa 


Th 


and  must  have  cost  a  good  man v  roublc-s.       ,  nere  ,s 
a  eon  ,  ,,,^^         ^^^_,^^^^^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^.^^^  , 

to  the    ame  i)er,ocl.      The  scene  on  one  side  is  Venus 
dcscenCng  to   her   palace   below   the  sea-vou     v  , 
remember  m  the  story  of  Cupid  and  Psvche       I 
not  know  .f  the  other  scene  represents  anvthin  / 
par  ,cular^    If  you  were  here  yc  u  would  rJvc      fa 
the  beaut.ful  things  in  art.      I  intend  to  beg  one  t 
^ruKbnamma-s   tapestries  from   her   for  vot.      T   / 
Death  of  .leopatra,-  which  is  exquisitelv  wrou.'l 
-'"I'l  just  fit  ,n  that  space  between  the  fiVcpIace  a  .d 
'-<>l-asc,n.h.  library.      There  is  also  an. L.^ee 


ij 


which  I  very  inucli  achiiircd.  U  i-  (;nc-  ..f  tli,  Roman 
tapestries  by  Fcrloni ;  the  scene  is  fn.iu  Tasso's 
"Jerusalem  Delivered.-  Rut  I  must  not  want  too 
much,  or.  like  Aladdin  of  the  Wonderful  Lamp.  I 
should  be  transporting  the  ])alace  and  all  its  con- 
tents to  a  little  vilhige  over  the  sea. 


10:00  A.  M..  June  i'.ltll. 

My  (/car  Fidus  Achates: 

I    didn't    finish    my   letter   last   night,    because   I 
remembered  that  in  this  prosaic  old  world  tliere  was 
no  such   thing  as  enchantment,  reallv;   and  that  I 
could  not  transport  either   the   palacJ  or  mvself  to 
you;    that   l)etwcen   us   lay    weeks   of    travel"       \iid 
when  I  thought  of  it,  and    how   raanv  weeks  must 
still  intervene  before  I  should  see  vou,  I  got  rid  of 
my  heartache  by   the  remedy   best  known  for  tlu-t 
malady-tears;  and  as  I  found  they  were  beginning 
to  rum  the  appearance  of  mv  letter,  I  put  it  awav 
But  the  sun  is  again  shining,  the  tears  are  gone  and 
this  IS  your  own  merry  Trema,  come  to  wish  you   a 
bright  gotnl  mori  ing. 

First   thing,   when  I  opened   mv  eves  some  four 
hours  ago,  I  thought  of  Riverside  and  "the  woods  at 
home;  so  while  the  elite  of  the  islands  were  still  in 
dreamland,    I    went    out,   unattended,   for    a    walk 
Don't  get    frightened:        I    did    not  go   bevond    the 
confines  of  our  park,  and  I  was  not  trviiig  to   lose 
myself,  but  to  find  some  prettv  little  nooks  where  I 
used  to  play  when  a  child.      And  I  did  find  niv  wild 
woods,  where  I  had  played  Robin  Hood  ;    but,"helas  ! 
It   was    turned    into   a  smooth,   green    glade,    with 
the  graceful  statue  of  a  woodland   nvmph   the  sole 


1! 


^•J^■ 


CKowxnn   at   HLi.^r. 


ii.-'I..tant  of  tlie  place;    wliilc  the  hillock,  where  niv 
iKTo    had    his   fortress,    was  ;-rov.  u    into   a   thicket 
Only  tlie  same  little  brook  chattered  over  the  pebbles 
and    wonnd   its    way  among  the  green  ferns  in  the 
ravine. 

Leaving  the  brook  I  climbed  up  the  side  of  the 
bank    by   means   of  a   (light   of  steps,    and    when    I 
reached  the  toj)  I  found  myself  in  a  magnificent  -rove 
|'«   linden  trees,  in  the  midst  of  which  is  a  TuHd^h 
kiusk.      1  sat  down  on  the  steps  of  the  heathenish 
edifice  and  looked  aroun<l.     It  was  a  beautiful  spot- 
artdicu.l   lakes,    artificial    groves,   statuarv    in    the 
nudst  of  a  wealth  of  greenery,  limpid  pools  sin-dn- 
bn-ds.  blooming  plants.     I  used  t(,  have  an  erroneous 
"Pnnon  that  Para.lisecameafter  death;  now  I  knou- 
It   comes   before.     Now,  don't    wrinkle   up  vour  eve- 
brows  and  look  so  shocked.     If  vou  have  one  fault- 
ano  you  have  c.ne-iorgive  me  if  I  .livest  vou  of  one 
i)C)astcd    quality,    but  you    know    vou    haVc   lots   of 
good  ones  left;    and  since  you  will  c.^alt  me  in  spite 
of  myself,  you  must  not  mind  if  I  turn  preacher,  and 
tell  you  that  you   take  the  u'orld  and  evervthin-  in 
>t    too    seriously,    and    so    everything    shJcks     and 
wounds  and  corrodes,  and  breaks  the  great,  tender 
iicart  of  you.     But   what   was    I   saving  about  this 
pocket  edition   of  Paradise?      Oh.   'ves ;    it   was  so 
beautiful   that   I   wanted   to   run   awav  over  to  the 
Church   of   St.  Isaacs,  fall   on   mv   knees   befbre  the 
Patriarch,  and  beg  him  to  give  me  some  severe  i.en 
ancc  to  perform.      Another  lapsus  calami,  vou   will 
say;    but,  indeed.  I  mean  it.  for   I  feel  that  all  this 
bjMuty  steals  into  the  senses  and  unfits  me  for  the 
st.rn...   duties  of  life.      I  know  I  w  .uld  make  a  most 


ck'()]v\i:i)   .17-   /;/./.u.  ,,»- 

perfect  priestess  in  the  sacre.l  temple  of  the  neaiU'-ful- 
but  thou-h  I  olTered  incense   all  dav  l«,n-,  and  .pent 
every  moni.nt   in   the  ceremonies  of  the  shrines    it 
would   stdl   remain   a   reli-ion   of  the  senses,  and  I 
must  clnnl.  to  tlie  Holy  City  by  a  more  ru--ed  ,)ath 
I  think  of  your  IWii  in  Riverside;  of  how  little  of 
the  beautiful  there  is  in  it;  of  the  -rcat  sacrifices  vou 
have  made;  and  yet  it  seems  the  true  life,  and  I  want 
to  be  somewhere  near  you-I  feel  afraid  .-done      The 
spotted    leopard*  is   always   beckonin-  me  aside   in 
tnis  City  of  the  Czars. 

And  now  there  are  no  more  thou<:,dits  save  one- 
that  after  all  these  pages  and  pages,  v.^u  will  l,e  glad 
to  hud  my  signature,  seeing  that  it  will  denote  a 
conclusion;  and  so  I  shall  gratifv  vou,  though  verv 
reluctantly,  by  signing  myself. 

Your  devoted  little  wife. 

Tkk.ma. 

When   David    McGlashan   finished   the  letter    he 
hfted  his  head,  and,  lo !  the  shadow  mountain  was 
gone.      It  had  dimmed  the  stars  bv  night,  and  had 
clouded  the  sun  1)y  day;  and  now,  without  warnin- 
It  had  been  carried  away  on  the  wings  of  a  daint^v 
missive  from  over  the  sea.      He  noticed  for  the  first 
time  h(3w  beautiful  the  river  was  in  that  t.articular 
spot.      He  noted   how  the  foliage  of  the  svcamores 
and   elms    was  entwined   and   interlaced   with   wild 
vines,  and  hung  in  graceful  festoons  over  the  water 
A   flock    of  geese  came   sailing    through    the    stone 
arches  of  th-  bridge  out   into   the  broad  river    and 
he  wondered  if  they  knew  that  the  I.n.ad.  smooth 
stream   w^ould  end   for   them   in  destruction  if  they 

•  Dante's  Inferno.     Canto  I..  I.  3i-n«. 


190 


Ch'<)\.-\!:n     AT     HLIM. 


eotiliiiiicil  (•n  their  course,  for  ahead  of  thciii  was  a 
precipitous  fall  of  thirty  feet.  And  then  lie  thou- lit 
how,  in  life,  Edenic  restin<^  places  often  canie  before 
troublous  times.  He  had  come  to  such  a  place  now. 
l)Ut  he  was  not  afraid  for  the  future.  lie  had  hail 
a  ])remonition  of  trouble,  but  it  had  only  been  a 
premonition,  and  now  it  was  gone,  he  hoped,  for- 
ever. Xor  did  .t^rave  df)ubts  ajj^run  return,  even  when 
those  dreaded  weeks  liad  passed  and  Trenia  -lid  not 
come  at  the  appointed  time.  But  she  sent  one  of  her 
cheery  letters,  tellinj^'  liow  the  nol)ility  were  about 
to  leave  their  summer  homes  on  the  islands  for  tlie 
city,  and  that  the  Countess  had  <.^iven  a  grand  fete, 
the  last  social  event  of  the  summer,  and  that  she 
and  her  mother  had  remained  a  few  weeks  longer 
in  conseipience  of  it. 

All  the  arrangements  of  the  fete  were  symbolic 
of  the  harvest  season.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  harvest 
festival.  Over  the  driveways  we-e  arches  of  jack-o'- 
k.nterns.  The  lawn  represented  a  field  of  harvested 
grain.  The  stately  entrance  to  the  villa  was  out- 
lined with  autumnal  flo>vers.  Tne  piazza,  which 
was  of  generous  proportions  in  length  and  breadth, 
was  canopied  with  grapevines,  whose  laden  branches 
sank  drooping  to  the  floor  and  formed  an  arbor  in 
which  supper  was  served  later  in  the  evening.  The 
interior  of  the  villa  was  included  in  the  general 
scheme  of  harvest  decorations.  Grapevines,  flowers 
and  ripe  fruit  formed  a  frieze  around  the  drawing 
room ;  garlands  of  poppies  graced  the  pillars ;  sun- 
flowers and  poppies  peeped  out  f.  om  great  banks  of 
palms  and  ferns;  screens  of  plaited  wheat  formed 
quiet   nooks    where  cosy   seats   were  placed   in   the 


CROWNED     AT    KLIM. 


HIT 


shack",  .'IS  it  were,  of  miniature  straw-stacks.  The 
rich  eostuiues  of  the  lathes  eoiiipleled  tlie  st-eiie  of 
beauty.  This  aiul  niueh  uujre,  Trenia  told  in  her 
eharniiii;.^  way.  And  the  minister  stifle-  a  si<i;h  at 
the  thought  of  her  ahsetice,  and  with  the  courage  of 
a  martyr,  wrote  her  not  to  he  in  a  hurry  to  return 
but  to  enjoy  herself  for  a  few  weeks  longer. 

The  weeks  passed  (juiekly;  then  winter  was  upon 
them,  and  it  was  not  thought  advisable  to  undertake 
a  sea  voyage  during  such  inclement  weather.  Trema 
was  glad  that  it  had  been  decided  that  they  were  to 
remain  till  spring,  for  as  time  passed  she  noticed  her 
grandmother  growing  mf)re  and  more  feeble,  and  she 
did  not  wish  to  leav^  her.  She  would  gladh'  have 
given  up  all  festivities  to  remain  by  her  side,  but  the 
Countess  would  not  have  it  so.  She  assured  Trema 
tliat  she  was  feeling  as  well  as  usual,  and  insisted 
on  her  fulhlling  all  her  engagements,  and  they  were 
many.  As  for  Madame  Zamoyski,  the  days  weie 
filled  with  a  giddy  round  of  social  duties.  She  al- 
ready felt  that  her  life  in  Canada  was  a  dream ; 
that  there  was  no  life  outside  of  that  whirl  of 
dinner  parties,  theatre  parties,  balls  and  social  teas. 


198 


Ch-uwxuij    AT    r-LIM. 


CHAI'TF-K      XVIII. 

SrPERHLV    ccstuuR.I.    Ma.lanic    /iamovski     one 
c-ven.n^.  entered    the   salcn    of    I'rinee^s    Ment- 
ch.kofT.  wl.cre  she  and  Trenia  had  been  invited 
to  (hne  w,th  a  few  distinguished  celebrities.      While 
she  stood  chatting  with  her  hostess,  there  can.e  to 
her  the  nu.nory  of  former  years,  and  n.entallv  she 

St.  tclN  sa!,ni-,ts  walls  hung  in  rosy  satin,  itsceihng 
nchly  painted  ni  fresco,  its  furniture  of  gilt    nxd  bn", 

caded  sdk,  and  tl..n  she  looked  past  ^hedaLlin,; 
groups  ot  r.chly-gowned  folk  to  where  Tren.a  sat 
lat,g  nng  and  chatting  with  some  friends.  Princess 
Mcntclnkofl  also  noticed  at  the  nnnnent  Treni-Vs 
sparkling  l)eauty. 

"  Your  daughter  was  meant  to  be  a  social  leader 
it  is  a  p,tv  she  marred  in  Canada,"  she  said 

"^c's,"  Madame  Zamoyski  answered  "i  w.s 
just  wondering  how  she  will  ever  be  able  now  to  '^o 
back  to  the  quiet  life  wf  her  village  home  - 

The  Pnncess  .hnigged  her  fair  shoulders  grace- 
back'  -       ''  "^  "''''^^'^''"^^-     '^^hy  should  she  ever  go 

tion''' Wl"'"'i  The  thought  can.e  as  an  inspira- 
tion. \\hy  need  she  ever  go  back?  Just  then  the 
fohhng  doors  rolled  back  noiselessly;    two  footmen 


Vi 


Lll 


CKoWXi:!)     AT     t.l.lM 


199 


ro 


(livw  risido    tlit-    t.-'pt-slrx    porucnc^ ;    Uic    hutictshck 
stood  111  the  ;ir(.-lK(|  (1(  )tn\ 

"  I'iiiiKr  is  served,*'  lie  said. 

The  Triiieess  aeeoiiipanied  hy  Count  Hranitskis 
led  I  lie  way.  Trema  lollowed  on  the  arm  of  a  dis- 
liii.Hiiished  Russian  nolijeinau.  Madame  ZamovsUi 
found  ihat  I'rinee  StreelinoiV  had  been  assi-ned  to 
lier;  hut  thouj^h  lie  jiroved  an  a<;reeable  eoinpanion 
and  she  -,^ave  eourteous  attention  to  his  remarks, 
yet  she  was  still  busy  with  that  startlin^^  (luestiou: 
"  Why  need  she  ever  J40  bael<  ?  " 

Oiiee  again  Madame  /.ainoyski  had  tnsled  of  the 
iritoxieant  of  lu.\ury,  and  found  it  good;  heneefoitli 
she  must  live  upon  it.  How  she  hated  povertv! 
How  she  loved  this  royal  magiiifieenee— the  splendor 
of  the  dinner  serviee.  the  softly  shaded  eandelabra, 
sparkle  ofeut  glass,  the  ineense  of  rare  (lowers!  She 
must  have  it  at  any  price.  .\nd,  alas  I  for  all  these 
things  she  must  look  to  Trema.  Through  Trema 
only  eould  e  liojjc  to  win  favor  with  tlie  Countess 
and  receive  money  enough  to  sujjply  her  extravagant 
wants.  Then,  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  the  light  and 
the  laughter  and  the  llowers,  a  thought  came.  Ma- 
dame Zamoyski  raised  her  head  ;  her  cheeks  were 
glowing,  her  eyes  s])arkling.  She  would  do  it.  Why 
not?  David  McGlashan  would  care  for  a  little 
while.  Trema  would  care,  too,  but  she  would  soon 
forget. 

'I  he  idea  was  so  simple  that  it  did  not  seem  very 
dreadful.  In  fact  she  realized  now  that  the  thought 
was  not  new;  that  it  had  been  lurking  in  her  heart 
ever  since  that  morning  in  Riverside  when  she  had 
received  the  letter  from  Countess  Strogunoff,  and  it 


200 


Ch'OWXi:!)     AT     i:i.IM. 


had  only  iR't-iKd  llif  riiiiark  fVimi  I'rincos  McTitilii- 
kort"  to  crv^talizc  llic  tliou^lil  into  dilinitc  action. 
She  was  (kridcd  now.  Trctna  must  nrvtr  rctmii  to 
Canacha.  She  would  intercept  ail  Ictlt-rs  passing 
between  David  atid  Treina,  and  then  instil,  drop  hy 
droj),  the  vcnotn  of  distrust  in  Trenia's  tnind.  This 
plan,  so  simple  in  j^eneral  outline,  would  re<niire  a 
great  deal  of  thought  to  hring  it  to  a  suecessful 
issue.  lM)r  instanee,  if  Treina  did  not  hear  from 
lier  husband  in  u  eertain  lengUi  of  time,  she  woidd 
l)r()hably  take  jjassage  in  the  next  ship  and  return 
home.  That  must  be  j)revented.  Then  David  Me- 
(jjashan  might  come  to  St.  Petersburg  to  see  for 
himself  how  matters  stood.  That,  too,  must  lie 
prevented. 

U  was  the  very  next  day  that  the  Countess,  in 
going  over  her  mail,  held  a  letter  out  to  Madame 
Zamoyski. 

"  Who  is  this  letter  for?  "  she  asked.  "  My  eyes 
are  not  as  good  as  they  onee  were,  and  I  cannot 
make  out  the  name." 

Madame  Zamoyski  took  it  eagerly  w  lien  she  saw 
the  Riverside  ])ostmnrk,  and  blessed  the  I'ates  who 
had  decreed  that  Trema  should  be  spending  that 
j)articular  day  with  a  friend.  A  few  moments  later, 
all  that  remained  of  David  Mc('.lashan's  bulkv  letter 
was  a  little  heap  of  aslies  in  the  grate  in  Madame 
Zamoyski "s  room. 

This  auspicious  opening  of  the  enterprise  gave 
her  courage.  It  seemed  to  augur  well  for  the  success 
of  her  scheme.  And  when,  a  few  days  later,  Treina 
s])oke  in  an  ar.xious  way  about  the  non-appearance 
of  her  letter,  her  mother  replied: 


ch'owxi-n    \r   r.i.iM. 


2(11 


"Do  not  tronhlc  yourself,  child.  D.-ivid  i«,,  of 
course,  bccomiuj^  accustomed  to  your  absence  now. 
The  receiving  of  a  letter  on  a  certain  day  will  no 
longer  prove  a  life  and  death  matter  to  him," 

And  day  by  day  thereafter,  she  sought  to  jilant 
snsi)icion  in  Tretna's  mind.  On  every  possilile  occa- 
sion sIk  cast  reflections  on  the  ct)nstancy  of  David 
McCilashan,  an<l  showed  Trema  what  a  small  part 
she  played  in  his  life,  filled  as  it  was  with  all  a 
pastor's  cares.  And  though  Trema  emphatically 
denied  all  these  accusations,  yet  she  was  deejiiv 
vvoun<led,  especially  when  after  a  time  there  seemed 
to  be  some  truth  in  her  mother's  assertions,  for  no 
letter  came.  After  one  of  her  mother's  dissertations, 
she  would  shut  herself  up  in  her  room  and  weep  for 
hours.  Though  Madame  Zanioyski  guessed  how 
these  hotjrs  were  spent,  yet  it  did  not  soften  her 
heart,  nor  turn  her  from  her  purpose.  It  was  not 
her  way  to  turn  from  a  thing  once  undertaken,  and 
all  tender  feeling  seemed  t  )  be  congealing  under  the 
baneful  influence  of  that  one  all-absorbing  desire. 

Those  were  bitter  days  for  Trema;  more  bitter 
because  she  tried  to  conceal  from  every  one  what  she 
was  sufTering.  For  to  show  that  she  was  troubled 
onl\'  i)roved  to  others  that  her  husband  was  grow- 
ing careless  towards  her.  In  the  first  days  of  un- 
certainty, she  was  determined  to  return  to  Canada. 
But  her  mother  had  prevented  that;  she  had  worked 
upon  the  one  vulnerable  spot  in  Trema's  character— 
her  pride.  Trema  was  not  without  pride;  she  would 
not  have  been  a  Zamoyskl  had  she  lacked  it.  She 
would  not  lose  faith  in  her  husband  while  there  was 
a  vestige  of  hope  on  which   to  cling;  yet  neither 


20 -J 


ch'owxnn   at   eltm. 


would  slie  take  any  step  to  clear  ui)  the  mystery  of 
his  iiKlifference. 

Another  mail  arrived,  and  no  letter  came.  She 
never  realized  till  hope  was  gone,  how  much  she  had 
counted  on  receiving  one.  At  this  fresh  disappoint- 
ment, there  fell  over  her  spirits  a  brooding  sense  of 
desolation  which  she  could  not  shake  oft'.  She  found 
it  imj)ossil)le  now  to  hide  her  grief  under  a  sunny, 
playful  air;  so  she  no  longer  received  company  or 
])ar  '  ipated  in  any  gaities. 

Spring  came  again,  but  for  Trema  there  was 
no  sj)ring.  In  her  heart  was  still  the  chilliness  of 
autumn.  When  the  warm  April  days  came  and  they 
went  to  *^icir  summer  home  on  the  Island,  she  went 
for  a  walk  in  the  park,  but  the  sight  of  the  chattering 
brook  and  the  kiosk  on  the  hill-toj)  onlv  reminded 
her  of  that  first  letter  she  had  written,  now  nearlv  a 
year  ago,  when  her  husband's  love  had  seemed  as 
firm  and  unchangeable  as  the  granite  quays  of  the 
Neva.  Rut  in  the  midst  of  her  trouble  a  new  grief 
came.  Countess  Stroganofif  died.  Though  she  had 
been  slowlv  failing  in  health  for  some  time,  \  et  her 
death  at  last  was  totally  unexpected  and  Trema  was 
inconsolable.  She  reproached  herself  for  being  selfish 
in  her  sorrow,  and  neglecting  her  grandmother  in 
her  last  days.  She  thought  with  a  ])ang  of  remorse 
of  the  many  little  acts  which  she  had  neglected  to 
perform.  She  scarcely  left  the  drawing  room  where 
the  Countess  lay  in  state,  but  carefully  and  gently 
an-.'inged  the  llowers  on  the  bier,  ])crforming  the  lasL 
loving  acts  which  it  was  possible  for  her  to  do. 

One  day.  on  etitcring  the  room,  Trema  found  her 
mother  kneeling  by  the  casket  witli  her  face  buried  in 


of 


CROWXI-D     AT     i:i.IM.  203 

the  purple  velvet  pall  whicli  covered  it.      Slie  hastilv 
withdrew,  l)nt  was  surprised  at  t!ie  evident  depth  of 
her  mother's  grief,  for  Madame  Zamoyski  had  never 
evinced   the  least  affection    for    her    niotlier-in-law. 
But  it  was  not  grief  for  the  dead  which  had  drawn 
the  lines  of  suffering  upon  her  face.      While  she  was  , 
surrounded  by  gaiety  and  excitement  she  had  little  * 
time  to   think,  hut   now  in   the  presence  of  death, 
voices  were   whispering  in   her  ears   to  stop  in  the 
course  which  she  had  mapped  out  for  herself,  and  for 
a  brief  space  she  listened.      She  thought  of  the  un- 
necessary trouble  she  had  caused  Trema;  her  unselfish 
devoted  child;   she  thought  how  she  had  fallen  from 
honor,  she    who    had    counted    honor    her    chiefest 
virtue;  she  thought  of  tlie  intrigue   and   deception 
which  she  had  practiced,  and  above  all,  she  thought 
of  Casimir— her  husband.     If  he  knew,  how  he  would 
despise  her !      He  had  always  thought  her  incapal)le 
of  a  dishonorable  action. 

"It  is  not  too  late;  I  can  yet  turn  back,"  she 
thought,  "for  I  am  rich  now.  so  is  Trema.  How  mv 
heart  beat  witli  happiness  when  the  Countess  told 
me  that  she  had  settled  a  handsome  annuity  upon 
me,  ami  that  Trema  was  to  share  equallv  with  her 
cousin  Ivan.  P.ut  I  cannot  lei  Trema  rJturn  even 
now.  During  our  residence  'lere  the  truth  has  been 
forced  upon  me  that  I  am  admitted  into  the  exclusive 
sets  upon  sutTerance,  because  I  married  a  Zamovski. 
Buc  Trema  is  admitted  because  she  is  a  Zanu/vski. 
In  St.  Pelersburg,  a  whole  world  of  diirerence  lies 
between  those  t  wo  facts.  Then  Trema's  intellectual 
gifts  and  irresistible  charm  gain  her  an  entrance 
everywhere.     Alas,  that  I  should  have  to  confess  it.' 


-'0+ 


CROWNED    AT    ELIM. 


tnjt  many  of  iny  social  triump}-s  have  been  scored 
through  my  daughter,  and  if  I  have  to  remain  alone 
in  St.  Petersburg,  with  neither  the  Countess  nor 
Trema  to  stand  as  sponsors  for  my  social  jjosition,  I 
suppose  I  shall  find  myself  relegated  to  oblivion.  In 
the  end,  they  will  only  remember  that  I  was  a  mer- 
chant's daughter;  and  Catherine  will  take  good  care 
that  our  friends  do  not  forget  it.  Then  why  let 
conscience  stand  in  my  way  ?  Trema  must  remain. 
And  what  pleas"  e  would  she  have  with  her  money 
in  Canada,  anyway?  Then  there  is  that  letter  I 
wrote  to  David  only  last  week— a  cruel,  false  letter, 
but  it  was  part  of  my  plan  aud  had  to  be  done. 
Now  if  I  let  Trema  go  back,  I  shall  have  to  retract 
and  say  it  was  a  lie,  and  that  I  cannot  do.  Bah  1 
how  near  I  came  to  making  a  fool  of  myself." 

She  lifted  her  face  from  the  i)all ;  every  trace  of 
tenderness  and  grief  had  passed,  and  the  haughty 
coldness,  which  of  late  seemed  to  be  her  dominant 
expression,  had  returned. 


^1 


CROWNED    AT    ELIM. 


205 


CHAPTER     XIX. 

FOR    David   McGlashan,   the  winter  had  passed 
drearily  enough.     In  February  a  thaw  came, 
and  the  country  took   on   quite  a  spring-like 
appearance.   Spring  was  in  the  air,  and  the  minister's 
spirits  rose  accordingly.      He  looked  at  his  calendar 
and  counted   the  weeks.      There   were  still  two  in 
February  ;  four  in  March,  and  two  in  April.     Trema 
would  be  home  in  eight  weeks  !     She  had  been  gone 
nearly  ten  months;   it  seemed  years.      He  returned 
the  calendar  to  its  place  and  put  on  his  overcoat;  he 
was  going  to  the  post-office.     He  felt  quite  confident 
that  he  would  get  a  letter  that  day.      He  had  not 
had  a  letter  from  Trema  for  some  time.    On  his  way 
to  the  village  he  began  thinking  of  the  changes  he 
v;ould    make    in   the  Manse.      He  would    have  the 
drawing  room  newly  decorated.     Trema  had  said  it 
was  too  gloomy.     He  would  have  a  new  mantel  put 
in— pure  white,  Grecian  style.     The  prevailing  colors 
in  the  decorations  would  be  white  and  gold.      It 
would  be  a  Marie  Antoinette  room.     He  would  have 
folding  doors  made  between  the  drawing  room  and 
a  little  ante-room— at  present  a  most  useless  place. 
He  would  have  an  organ  put  in.     Trema  was  so  fond 
of  sacred  music.     It  would  be  the  music  room.     He 
smiled  at  his  pretentious  names,  and  his  enthusiasm 


206 


CA'OU'.V/;/;      IT     EI.IM. 


in  house  decorating.  A  year  ago  lie  knew  littie 
enough  about  it,  1)ut  recently  he  had  given  some 
attention  to  the  subject  and  was  surprised  to  find 
that  tlie  draping  of  a  curtain  or  the  harmonious 
grouping  of  colors  came  as  naturally  to  him  as  sing- 
mg  to  an  onole.  He  did  not  recognize  the  fact  that 
his  work  was  an  outlet  for  his  artist  nature.  "I 
should  have  been  an  ui)h(;lsterer."  he  said  laughingly 
to  Mrs.  Lindsay,  when  by  a  single  dexterous  niove- 

-    ^5' ""-*-'"»'j    ariciiigcd    tt    l.ici-    cm  Lam, 

which,  under  the  housekeeper's  treatment,  had  per- 
sisted in  remaining  stiff  and  inartistic. 

s  enthusiasm  was  dampened  somewhat  when 
h.   :cu.  hed  the  jjost-office,  for  there  was  no  letter  for 
him.      .\fter   that,  the   day  did   not  seem  nearly   so 
bright.     One  of  his  parishioners  met  him. 
"A  beautiful  day.  Air.  McGlashan?" 
"  Yes,  but  I  think  there  is  going  to  be  a  storm."' 
The    man    looked    incredulous,    and    passed    on. 
David  McGlashan  did  not  eat  any  dinner,  and  t.»M 
Jeanie  that  Mrs.  Lindsay  need  not  iirepare  his  tea; 
he  was  going  out.      Me  returned  some   hours   laur 
and,  still  fasting,  retired  to  rest;  but  did  not  >:eei'. 
In    the    morning,    however,   he    felt    more    cheerful. 
"Whether  Trema  writes  or  not,"  he  reasoned,  'she 
mast  eome  home  in  a  few  weeks.     In  the  meantime  I 
shall  go  on  with  these  rejjairs." 

He  went  to  Toronto  and  selected  new  furnish- 
ings; workmen  were  engaged,  and  for  a  time  the 
ALanse  was  a  bustling  place.  But  though  David 
McGlashan  was  so  busy,  he  still  wondered  and 
worried  about  Trema's  silence.  Each  dav  wli.u  lie 
received  Ins  uinil  lu-    turned    aw.-iy  dis.-i;. pointed,  f.r 


11 


ch'o  \v \i:i)    A  r   i:i.i.\[.  i.'((7 

.'imoii;^-  his  k'tlcrs  there  was  rever  one  with  a  Russian 
pustinark.  One  .lay,  OonaUl  I'.ell,  noliein;,-  tlie  min- 
ister's clisai)p(Mnte{l  faee,  ^;iii  : 

"It  iss  a  lon<,' time  sine,  i  letter  came  from  Mis- 
tress MeOhishan.  It  will  in-  lakin;,'  a  Ion-:-  time  for 
a  letter  to  eome  from  Russia." 

The   minister    was    vexed.       His    wife's    stran-e 
silence  would  soon  he    the   talk    of  the  village.      lie 
woukl  not  watch  the  mail  so  anxiously.     He  would 
fei-n  indifference;  then  the  postmaster  would  think 
lie  was  not  looking  for  a  letter.      For  three  days  he 
stayed  away;  then  he  went  again  on  that  ])ilgrim- 
age  which  meant  so  much  to  liim.      The  store  Was 
full  of  customers,  and  Donald    Bell  was  waiting  on 
them.      David    McCilashan  went  over  to  the  side  of 
Lhe  store  wliere  the  p(Jst-ofFice  was  and  Kxjked  into 
his  box.      There    were  several    letters,  and— ves  !  un 
t'lc   to])    was   a   letter   with— not   a   Russian^  hut   a 
Prussian  post  stamj).      If  he  could  only  get  it !      P>ut 
the   post-office   boxes  in  Riverside  were   not   oijcned 
with  keys.     He  would  have  to  wait  his  turn.     Well, 
after  waiting  all  those  weeks  what  mattered  a  few 
more  minutes ! 

He  walked  away  and  spoke  to  some  of  the 
people.  He  saw  John  McLellan,  and  did  not  forget 
to  ask  after  his  mother,  who  had  been  suffering  with 
iicuralgia.  He  asked  Alex  Davidson  how  he  was 
gVLting  alo'ig  with  his  new  house,  and  listened  with 
at'cntion  to  a  detailed  de:,cription  of  it.  Vet  all  the 
ti'ii  .■  lie  was  thinking  of  that  letter  in  the  box.  He 
was  wondering  how  Trema  came  to  be  in  I'russi.i; 
l)erhai)s  they  had  gone  to  visit  Warsaw;  that  no 
doubt  accounted  for  her  silenoe       TVi*.  what  was  the 


208 


Ck()\v\i:n    AT    i:Li.\t. 


use  of  thinkini;,  wlieii  in  a  few  iiiouu'tits    In-  would 
know  all. 

At  '-  St  Donald  Bell  went  over  and  distributed 
the  mail.  When  the  minister  got  his  letter  he  noticed 
that  the  peculiar  foreign  writing  was  not  Trema's, 
hut  her  maid  might  have  addressed  t]:e  envelope. 
He  tijre  it  open  hastily  and  read  : 

"  Art  EMPftKHM, 
"Crefeld,  Rh.nisii  Prissia,  Feb.  I'uh,  isno. 
''Dear  Sir  : 

"We  l)eg  to  call  your  attention  to  the  enclosed 
testimonials  from  our  patrons  in  America,  which 
acknowledge  our  goods  to  be  the  most  l)eautiful 
ever  imported  into  that  country.  Our  hand-made 
sacred  vessels  which  we  manufacture  in  (jothic  and 
Roman  styles,  when  made  for  exportation,  receive 
especial  care. 

"Comparison  will  show  that  our  hand-made 
woven  silks,  gold  and  silver  brocade,  etc.,  for  the 
manufacture  (jf  vestments,  are  considerably  lower 
in  price  thnn  any  other.  Send  for  price  list  and 
samples  of  our  silks,  brocades,  etc. 

"Awaiting  your  esteemed  order,  we  are, 

"  Your  obedient  servants, 
"The  DuxENBiRG  Manuf.'vcturing  Co." 


It  was  a  bitter  disappointment.  He  turned  to 
go  out ;   he  was  very  pale. 

"The  young  mistress  is  quite  well,  I  hope,"  said 
the  postmaster,  noticing  David  McGlashan's  white, 
drawn  face. 


CK()\v.\i;i>    .17    i:lim. 


'jit'.i 


"  Ouite  well,  yts,  c|uile  wi-ll,"  he  replied,  soarcelv 
kiiowinj^r  what  he  said,  and  yet  teeliiiji  that  his  looks 
imist  belie  his  words.  But  one  eonsolalion  there 
was  in  the  disaijpointin^  letter.  Donald  Hell  had 
taken  it  for  fjranted  that  it  was  Ironi  Treina,  and 
talk  would  eease  for  the  present. 

He  drjigged  himself  wearily  home,  sat  down  l)v 
his  study  fire  and  tried  to  look  at  the  matter  in  a 
])ractical  way.  He  had  expected  a  letter  and  been 
disappointed;  but  what  of  that?  It  mi<j:ht  come 
to-morrow.  Hut  if  it  did  not?  If  day  after  day 
{)assed  and  no  letter  came,  what  then?  lie  <;rew 
white  at  the  very  thousj^ht.  A  lumdred  perplexing 
doubts  arose.  He  was  nervous  and  irritable.  The 
sound  of  the  workmen's  hammers  anno^-ed  him. 

"I  used  to  think  I  was  a  patient,  philosophical 
sort  of  being,"  he  said,  as  he  turned  towards  the 
stone  stairway  as  a  refuge  from  the  ncnse.  "Now  ail 
mv  patience  seems  to  have  deserted  me." 

At  the  first  landing  he  paused.  Should  he  go  on 
up  to  the  museum,  or  out  on  the  balcony?  Not  lo 
the  museum  this  time.  It  was  always  associated  in 
his  mind  with  that  happy  New  Year's  P)ve,  and  in 
his  present  depressed  state  the  ha})piness  of  that 
night  seemed  a  mockery  to  him.  He  opened  the  door 
oi.  the  landing  and  stcp])ed  out  on  the  balcony, 
which  was  but  a  ledge  of  smooth  rock.  This  new 
wing  of  the  Manse  had  been  built  close  to  a  ])L-ri)en- 
dicular  wall  of  rock,  the  top  of  which  was  levi.l  and 
overlooked  the  river.  Xo  more  secluded  sjiocfoidd 
lie  found  than  this  little  retreat.  Xot  a  single 
habitation  was  visible  from  it.  Beneath  his  feet  the 
river  lav  still  ice-bound  between  its  rockv  fastnesses. 


■2\0 


C'A''Mr.V/;/^     AT     KI.IM. 


After  the  tliav/  atnl  a  rriiii-storm,  severe  frost  had 
eoiiie,  ami  now  the  trees  on  tlie  o[)i)osite  batik 
gHttcred  with  a  tlionsand  sparklin^^  jewels;  the  roeks 
all  iee-coated  formed  a  dream-world  of  ice-pillars, 
>;lassy  cornices  and  j^leaniinj:;  ])innacles.  The  scene 
was  beautiful,  restful.  Under  the  innuence  of  that 
crystal  calmness  his  spirits  were  soothed,  and  hope 
returned  once  atrain  to  his  heart. 

.\  week  passed  and  then  a  bright  idea  struck  him. 
Trema  was  going  to  give  him  a  surprise;  she  was 
coming  home  without  writing.  He  was  jubilant. 
Wliy  had  In  not  thought  of  that  before?  There  was 
still  much  to  do,  and  he  set  a1)ont  the  remainder  of 
the  alterati'Mis  with  alacrity.  .\11  thetimehe  w(^rked 
he  tho  ight  )f  his  little  wife.  Would  this  please  her? 
Would  she  be  suited  with  that?  How  delighted  she 
would  be  with  it  all  I  But  then  the  Manse  must 
needs  be  bright,  for  after  all  the  grandeur  to  which 
she  had  been  accustomed  recently,  it  would  not  do 
for  her  to  return  to  a  dreary  home. 

He  was  ha])py  and  all  nature  seemed  to  rejoice 
with  him.  The  weather  was  warm  again,  and  with 
the  return  of  balmy  airs  the  robins  had  come.  The 
river  had  lirciken  suddenly-  from  its  icy  fetters  and 
went  turn'  'itig  over  the  rocks  with  a  roar  like  a 
rushing,  angry  sea ;  surface  rivulets  danced  and 
foamed  down  the  hillsides,  the  trees  were  beginnin  - 
to  bud;  the  whole  world  had  burst  into  life  and 
gladness. 

The  minister  went  home  one  da^v  with  a  radiant 
face.  Dr.  Rlair  had  bought  Vinetnount ;  had  for- 
sworn bachelorhood;  and  he  and  Hilda  I5ain  were  to 
be  married  the  last  of  April.     "  The  idea  !"  said  the 


m.  .\  i 


ck(iWM:i>    AT   i:lim. 


-11 


i.iiiiistcr.  '•.-111(1  Hilda  so  yoiiii;,^— barely  scvciittrii  I 
And  wlio  would  have  thought  that  the  di-^niified  Dr. 
r.iair  would  have  chosen  Hil(la~<4entle.  timid,  little 
Hilda?  Well.  I  am  jj^lad  that  I'm  nearly  throu^di 
with  my  alterations  and  I  wish  Treina  was  here  to 
enjoy  the  weddin<j;  festivities." 

It  was  indeed  pleasant  to  hear  sounds  of  life  at 
Mnemount,  for  ever  since  Kali)h  Murray  had  taken 
possession  of  it  the  place  had  been  closed  up.  Now 
.all  was  chan<.;ed.  The  doctor  ;ind  minister  wonld 
call  across  from  their  res])ective  ver.'indas  to  learn 
how  each  other's  work  was  |)ro_<iressing,  and  be- 
tween the  two  there  was  .a  i)Iayful  rivalrv.  Some- 
tini'js  the  doctor  would  <,'o  over  to  the  Manse, 
criticise  all  the  minister's  work,  and  tell  how  much 
nicer  he  was  going  to  have  things  ;  whereat  David 
McGlashan  would  reply  that  when  \'inemount  looked 
nicer  than  the  Manse  he  would  give  him  permission 
to  criticise. 


I 


;r-' 


ch-<)\vM:i>    XT    i:i.i\r. 


CHAI'l'IvR      XX. 

DR.  I'.l. AIR'S  wcddiii.i;  <lay  eamc  round  al  last, 
atid  the  event  caused  an  unusual  exeilenient  ni 
the  (luiet  little  villa-e.  Almost  everyone  was 
preparin-  to  ,vm)  to  the  eliurch  to  -et  a  -liuipse  of  the 
honnie  voun-  bride.  Ciiarlie  Kinnear,  who  had  been 
in  Toronto  tor  some  months,  had  just  arrived  tor  the 
nrrat  oeeasion.  David  .MeCdas'aan  met  him  as  he 
jumped  irom  the  staire  eoach. 

•"  Ib.w  do  you  do?""  Charlie  eried.  when  he  saw 
his  i)astor.  "  I  thou-lu  1  was  -oin-  to  be  late.  l)Ut  I 
must  be  in  time  after  all  sinee  you  have  not^gone  yet. 
May  I  drive  over  to  the  ehureh  with  you?" 

"Certainly;    just  wait  a  moment    till    I  get    my 

mail." 

The  postmaster  had  just  opened  the  mail-bag, 
and  he  lianded  the  minister  a  letter— a  letter  from 
St.  I'etersbur-  at  last  I  He  i)ut  it  in  liis  pocket,  for 
he  did  not  care  to  read  it  with  Charlie  looking  on. 

'•  Well,  how  do  you  like  business,  Charlie?  ".asked 
the  minister  when  they  started  along  the  road. 

••  iMuel  Tnele  George  says  if  I  kee])  on  working  as 
I  have  done  he  will  make  me  a  i)artner  s(K)n.  And 
what  do  vou  think?  He  is  going  to  send  me  to 
Paris  ne.xt  mouth  to  look  atter  some  business.  I 
think  he  is  sending  me  on  this  trip  as  a  test  to  sec 


CA-oir  V/.V)     AT     r.l.lM 


M3 


wlictlar  I  ;iiii  worthy  ot'  promotion  or  not.  I  sliall 
<lo  my  very  best.  It  looks  as  if  Mrs.  McCilasliau's 
palmistic  divinations  were  corrt-ct.  I  am  really 
sutvcfdini.;-,  and  I  am  really  ^oin.u  abroad  " 

"  I'almistic  divinatiousl  Why,  what  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"Don't  you  remem])rr  that  nii;ht  at  the  su;j:ar 
eanip  when  Trema— 1  hejj:  your  i)ar(lon— .1/r.s.  Mc- 
( 'r/:isli;iii  read  my  hand  ?  Vou  must  have  seen  her. 
I  think  she  thought  you  were  aniri'y  at  her  tor  it. 
lieiause  she  would  not  finish  telling'  me,  and  I  eould 
never  joax  her  to  tell  me  anytiiinj,^  a,^ain.  vShe  had 
said  that  I  had  little  love  tor  poetry  or  tine  arts,  hut 
would  sueeeed  in  practical  tilings,  and  that  1  would 
travel  abroad." 

"  I  had  no  idea  tliat  Mrs.  McGlash.an  knew  any- 
thing ot  palmistry.  I  shall  have  to  ask  her  when  she 
comes  home  what  led  her  to  study  such  a  subject." 

"  Is  she  coming  home  soon  ?  " 

"Oh.  yes;  I  think  scj.  I  have  just  received  a  letter 
from  her."  .\nd  he  felt  his  jiocket  to  see  that  the 
precious  letter  was  still  there. 

"  I  suppose  when  you  <.iet  to  be  a  Lrreat  business 
man,  you  will  be  coming  back  to  carry  off  one  of  our 
lassies?  "  continued  the  minister. 

"  I\Thaps  I  may." 

"  Which  one  will  it  be;  Miss  Cairns?" 

"  Who  told  you?  I  don't  sec  how  you  know," 
said  Charlie,  laughing  and  flushing. 

"  Oh,  I  just  guessed." 

They  reached  the  church  then,  and  found  that 
the  jjcople  were  already  gathered.  David  McGlashan 
went  to  the  vesLry,   but  before  donning  his  clerical 


!U 


CA''Ml-  ././<     .1  r     l.l.IM . 


rolns  he  sal  ilnwii  Id  iiatl  llu-  Irttrr;  iio  liaii^'tT  of  a 
(lisappoiiumciil  tlii^  liiiit';  it  was  scaltil  witli  tlic 
crest  ol  llu-  Si  r();,'a  111  ill's,     ilo  <)|)t'nc<l  it  and  read: 

Si  Kni.ANIil- I     I'aI.ACK, 

Sr.  I'u  n.Ksiu  kg.  .1/<;/7  Itnh.  lsr,U. 

Rev.  Daviii  McniAsnAS. 

"  The  Miitisc,     Rivcisidc,  I'piier  (Sunniht. 

Ih;ir  Sir: 

I  am  rc(|iKsUil  I)y  my  (laugliliT  to  inform  you 
liiat  since  comin.Lr  to  St.  rctc'rsl)urj.x  she  considers  her 
!narria>.;e  with  a  ei-untry  elcr^^yman  a  ;.^rave  mistake, 
which  she  deei)ly  re>;rets.  Slic  now  sees  what  her 
true  stains  in  society  should  he.  Instead  of  the 
company  ot  a  few  indiistrious  Scotcli  (Lames,  siie  has 
for  friends  the  exalted  on  s  of  the  earth.  Her  iiohle 
lineaLTC  her  many  talents,  her  wonderful  heaiity,  has 
caused  iill  doors  to  be  o[)ene(l  unto  her.  Ivven 
crowned  heads  rcCv      .-her  gladly. 

Knowinj,'  your  conscientious  scruples  in  regard 
to  your  work,  she  believes  it  will  be  impossible  to 
])crsua(le  you  to  live  in  St.  I'etersburg,  where  no 
doubt  the  society  would  be  uncongenial  to  you; 
tlierefore,  she  believes  that  the  only  course  to  pursue 
under  the  circumstances  is  to  live  apart.  She  trusts 
that  you  will  look  tni  this  matter  calml\ ,  and  if  you 
love  her  you  will  sacrifice  your  feelings  for  her  well- 
being. 

She  has  not  written  this  letter  herself,  as  she 
feared  that  the  contents  woidd  grieve  you  more 
dee])Iy  coming  irom  her.  it  will  be  useless  to  tr3-  to 
persuade  her  dillcrently  by  writing,  as  her  mind  is 
quite  made  u[).      Should  ^-ou  answer  this  letter,  your 


i!i 


c-<Miiitimiicritioii  will  ii,,t  r.,;uli  us,  as  wc  li-a\v  almost 
imiiifdialcly  tor  a  trip  in  SoiiIIktii  !:iiio|h-. 

Trusting'  tliat  yoti  will   take  an  impartial  view  of 
this  matter,  believe  me  to  he, 

Voar     respeettuUv, 

MiKIAM    ZaMOVSKI. 


He  held  liie  note  in  his  liand  like  one  in  a  dream. 
He  noticed  the  wide  border  of  hlaek,  and  wondered 
vaguely  at  it;  he  examined  the  bcaniifid  crest  of  the 
Stro;.:anoffs,  tryiti-^r  in  a  dim  way  to  decipher  its 
meaniiifr;  and  looked  with  attention  at  Madame 
Zamoyski's  fine  handwritint;.  It  seemed  as  if  he  had 
two  natures,  but  the  one  which  ached  and  sutfered 
was  dead,  while  the  other  could  take  note  of  all 
these  little  ihin^^s. 

Presently  he  heard  a  sound  outside,  and  he  re- 
membered that  he  was  to  ofiiciate  at  a  marriage. 
He  i)ut  on  his  j.":own  mechanically  and  when  he  was 
ready  to  go  in,  he  seemed  for  the  first  time  to  realize 
the  magnitude  of  the  blow  that  had  come  ui)on  him. 
Trema  had  deserted  him  I  Trema.  with  the  madonna 
face,  was  false;  Trema,  with  the  soft  dove's  eyes,  had 
broken  her  vows.  And  iiow  more  vmvs  were  going 
to  1)e  made  just  to  be  broken  ;  and  he  would  have  to 
listen  to  those  vows  and  pronounce  a  blessing  u])on 
them. 

When  he  stood  before  the  bridal  party  Dr.  Rlair's 
grave  confidence  angered  him.  Imbecile!  Did  he 
not  kncjw  that  vows  were  brittle  as  wax?  He 
scared  new  whether  he  was  using  the  proper 
words  ot   the  marriage  service  or  not;    for  a   verse 


21B 


CROWXHD     AT     ELIM. 


of  poetry  was  rushing  through  his  mind  with   the 
rapidity  of  a  whirlwind. 

"O  fear,  when  thy  soul  into  hers  is  so  Vjountl, 
That  to  tear  it  away  would  inflict  a  det-p  wound, 
When  her  smile  seems  as  true  as  the  sun's  loving  lif;ht, 
Remember,  the  sages  had  reason  to  write: 
'O  woman  has  ever  inconstant  been  known, 
And  who  thinketh  to  bind  her  soul  fast  to  his  own, 
He  thinketh  to  hold  the  wild  winds  in  h'.s  hand, 
And  to  write  deathless  words,  by  the  waves,  in  the  sand/  " 

The  cei-emony  was  over  at  hist,  and  friends 
flocked  about  the  bride  and  groom  to  otTer  con- 
gratuh-itions ;  and  David  McGh-ishan  ofiererl  congrat- 
uLations,  too.  He  felt  Hke  laughing-a  mocking, 
sarcastic  laugh.  It  wris  a.l  like  a  puppet -show-a 
:arce,  that  v.-as  gone  through  every  now  and  again 
for  the  atnusement  of  the  crowd. 

Soon  the  bells  chimed  out  merrily.  The  doctor 
and  his  voung  bride  drove  away,  and  the  guests 
who  had  been  invited  to  the  wedding  breakfast 
followed.  After  the  breakfast  there  was  goitig  to  be 
a  reception  for  the  villagers  at  Vinemount.  Tb.e 
minister  excused  himself  from  the  reception.  He  was 
tired  of  smiling;  tired  of  saying  eulogistic  nothings; 
tired  of  looking  at  happy  faces;  and  tired  of  i)retend- 

ing  to  be  hap]n'. 

"Yes.  I  am  tired  of  it  all!"  he  exclaimed  when 
the  day  was  done,  and  he  was  alone  in  his  room.  "  I 
am  tired  of  life  which  is  nothing  but  a  gigantic  false- 
hood ;  tired  of  trying  to  be  true  when  truth  is  dea('  , 
tired  of  striving  towards  an  ideal  which  vanishes  as 
I  near  it,  like  some  half  remembered  dream.  And 
after  ail  what  are  ideals,   but   half  formed   dreams 


i'iMi 


CRDWXI-I)    AT    i:i.i.\f. 


.'17 


wliich  can  never  be  fulfilled  '     Poor  miserable  human 
creatures,  fallen  angelhood  !     What  are  we  ?     ( )nce  in 
the  ages  past  we  took  a  wrong  turn,  and  we  hjive 
been  going  wrong  ever  since.     The  dross  of  earth  has 
perverted  our  sense;  our  souls  are  burned  out;  oar 
impulses  are  sick;  we  deceive  one  another,  and  then 
we  deceive   ourselves,    till   at  last   we  are  not  sure 
whether  we  wish  to  reach  some  higher  plane  or  not. 
So  we  mix  with  the  crowd  and  are  swejit  along  en 
mnsse  as  leaves  are  whirled  in  a  stream,  till  iho  feet 
become  weary,  and  the  eyes  are  dim.  and  thegr.ue 
is  just  beyond,  and  then— ah.  what  then?     Well,  I  at 
least,  cannot  mix  with  the  crowd.     1  cannot  fritter 
my  life  away  in  absorbing  nothings.      T  shall  leave 
I  he  ministry  and  i)aint  pictures— pictures  of  fair  false 
faces  sitting  in  temples  of  dethroned  gods ;  of  stately 
forest  trees   preyed   upon   by  graceful   vines   till  the 
mighty  giants  slowly  give  up  their  lives  to  the  tairy 
tendrils  which  stealthily  close  about  them  ;  of  flowers 
of  exciuisitc  beauty  blooming  in  an  arid  waste,  lor 
their  odors  emit  death.     Thus  I  shall  teach  mankind 
that  nothing  is  so  pure  but  it  may  be  deadly— that 
Beauty  is  Death." 

With  these  aching  thoughts  weigliing  upon  his 
brain,  the  minister  at  length  fell  asleep,  h  med 
that  he  was  long  in  waking,  and  that  duri  .  ose 
long  hours  .-f  sleep  he  dreamed.  Once  in  his  (irean^  a 
soft-eyed  jianther  crept  close  to  him.  and  wliile  he 
was  admiring  its  graceful  form  it  crouched  ready  tt) 
siiring,  while  its  beautiful  eyes  shot  sparks  of  fire. 
Then  he  fancied  that  he  was  moving  through  an 
Elysian  glade  where  vines  and  mosses  grew,  and  sank 
down  to  rest  amid  the  soft  luxuriance. when  a  slimy 


o^8  C-A'')U-.Vf-/)         T     F.l-IM- 

:eptne  crept  out  .V<,.an..n.U.iV,lu...^a^^^^^^^^^^ 
around  a  pku.t.  cruslnn.u  out  it     h    •     b  ^^^^ 

this  lon,^  sleep.  Trcnu.  came  a,u    ^     ^^  >/ ,^     ,,,,. 
n„(l  scrrc.wful-cycd;    but    when    he  called 
vanished  like  mist.  ^   -j.  ^ 

Ti„.„  'it  list  he  awoke  and  heara  in.  i 
Then  at  lasi  ne  better;  all  danger  is 

CkhCfhin  hand.  ..«iU..g  through  her  tear,  and 
"•'"f.";::' Lord  he  praised    for  His  goodness.,  we 

eouiana  nK.k  np  oor  nnn.ls  '-  '"^  ^^^^'.^  '   e  were 
He  ^vondered  what  .t  all  meant,  an     n 

dreaming  yet.  Would  Mrs^  I-'<'->,t:-taite  for  a 
..auish.  too.  as  Tre.ua  had  '"- ,  "j^^^"  „,  ^h,,, 
n,„mcut  fearing  that  th^v-ond  d  -ppe     ■  ^_^ 

he  notieed  a  hou.,uet  o.  )■;"'  ^^  ^^,  „,„  d„an>. 
knew  that  time  hail  passed  smce  lie  n.i 

'"°  ..  What  is  the  matter,  doetor  ?    Have  1  been  ill  ?  •• 
"Yes,  very  ill." 
.•  For  how  long  '  "  ^^^^  ^^^^ 

hl,„.     When   they  ^"■''^.^"'"f:/'   ,  "Xr.-rew  coii- 
rememher  everything.  Im      '^       ''™;^  V,  „  ,,„ieh 
fused   and  soon  he  fell  into  a  tleep  sitcp. 
{;rdi'd  not  .vaUen  «">  the  ear,-  Uou,.  o    da.n.^^  And 

;::!::::  :;^h:ia:i::;:;::^"":-^v.  he  .ineied  that 

beams  oi  i  c>  .       -     j      j^mmse  till  He 

he   floated   away  lU   tlie   patli  oi 


I 


'ROWXED     AT    ELIM. 


119 


•jre.'it 


a  in  the  midst  of  shekinah  glory,  and  saw  the 
Hi-h  Priest  in  his  Temple  filling  golden  lamps 


with  holy  0,1,     And  lie  said  to  the  angel  who  stood 

"What  nieaneth  thi>    my  lord. 

And  the  angel  answered:  "As  the  Anointed  One 
mieth  the  lamps  with  holy  oil.  so  He  hUeth  Ihs 
people  with  His  Holy  Spirit,  that  they  may  keep 
Their  testimony  l^right  and  elear  in  a  world  (^t  dark- 

"*"^  Then  the  Anpinted  One  turned  and  looked  at 
David,  till  he  felt  those  eyes  piereing  down  into  his 
heart  and  seeing  there  all  tlie  rebellion,  and  hatred, 
.nnd  unbelief  whieh  of  late  had  lurked  there,  tlun 
the  eyes  of  the  Holv  One  grew  tender,  and  sad.  and 
loving,  till  David  fell  at  His  feet  and  ened  : 

"Now  let  sorrows  inerease;  let  tr.jnds  torsake 
me;  and  let  jov  pass  me  by:  yet  will  I  trust  Thee, 
my  Lord  an.i  my  Redeemer.  ;For  Thy  Name  s  sake, 
O  Lor-^"    pardon  mv  inicpnty.'" 

\nil  with  that  eager  cry  he  awoke,  but  the  re- 
membrance of  the  drenm  lingered  wit!i  him. 


»li 


220 


CRriw.\i:n    at    i:lim. 


CHAPTER     XXI. 

Wnil  returning'  health,  tlic  minister  realised 
;h?  hiltcr  truth  that  soon  tlic  worhl  wouhl 
have  to  know  that  his  wife  had  deserted 
liini.  Stranu;^elv  enoui;h.  witli  his  ihne-s  all  anger 
and  l)itter  resentment  a-ainst  Trenir,  had  passed 
away.  Was  tins  not  the  very  result  that  he  had 
lon'4  a>;(>  Ibreseen  ?  Like  a  little  eaptive  Mrd  whieh 
would  apjjear  contented  in  its  captivity,  yet  having 
once  gained  the  tVeedun  ot  tlie  forest,  nothing  could 
iixhu-e  it  to  return;  so  i  renia  had  been  contented  in 
Riverside  till  a  l)roa;;er  view  of  the  worhl  was  given 
her.  He  l)lamcd  himself  for  being  so  foolish  as  to 
thiidi  that  one  ofTiema's  position  and  accomplish- 
ments would  be  satisfied  to  be  the  wife  of  a  country 
minister. 

But  a];is  for  David  McGlashan  1  This  reasoni.ig 
did  not  make  his  sorrow  less  heavy  to  bear.  He 
knew  the  world  would  lilame  his  wife  when  they 
came  to  know  the  trutli,  and  he  could  not  stand  the 
thoutrht  that  they  would  blame  her.  How  was  he 
to  let  tlie  ])eoi)le  know  that  she  would  never  return? 
Hecould  not  let  them  km)w— not  yet.  But  his  secret 
weighed  upon  him.  lie  was  not  so  pleasant  and 
•Tenial  with  the  ])eople  whom  he  knew  l)est.  They 
noticed    the  change  in  him.  but   attributed  it  to  his 


:    i 

I    ; 


c/v'oir.v/;/;     i  r    r.i.iM. 


221 


illness.  lie  wont  out  very  little;  shut  himself  up 
with  his  hooks,  and  was  in  a  fair  wav  of  beeoniiiiL'-  a 
recluse,  when  an  unforeseen  eveiit  i-tused  him  l.  for- 
get his  own  trouble  in  those  of  others.  Cholera 
visited  the  villa.ij-e.  .\  family  of  emiirrants  from  a 
cholera  infected  vessel  found  their  way  from  Montreal 
to  I'Jiverside.  One  of  the  family  died  shortlv  after 
theii  arrival,  "from  a  disease  resemhlin.i^  cholera," 
llie  people  said.  Then  old  Airs.  Wi^t^ins  died  sud- 
denly after  a  few  hours'  illness.  When  Dr.  Blair 
diaynosed  his  first  case,  he  sent  Hilda  to  friends  in 
Oxford  County,  and  then  went  in  haste  to  David 
Mc(ilash;in. 

"  Von  will  have  to  tnke  a  holiday.  Mr.  McGln- 
shan."  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid  we  are  in  for  a  siege  of 
cholcrri  ;  and  in  your  weak  state  of  health  it  would 
be  madness  for  you  to  stay  here.  Aiul  v<.a  will  have 
to  tell  Mrs.  MeGlashan  to  remain  for  the  present  in 
St.  I'etersburg." 

At  the  doctor's  last  words  a  weight  passed  from 
the  minister's  heart.  Evidently  his  friend  did  not 
even  suspect  that  all  was  not  well  between  him  and 
Trcma.  .\nd  then  he  woidd  not  be  under  the  neces- 
sity of  telling  him— not  just  now,  and  tl'cn.  perha-ps 
what  the  doctoi  said  was  true— in  his  .>cak  state  of 
health  he  might  take  the  cholera,  and— he  would 
never  hrive  to  tell.  There  is  no  one  to  mourn  me 
slionlii  I  not  come  through  this  safely,  he  thought 
half  sadly.     Then  to  the  doctor,  he  said  : 

"  My  friend,  I  would  rather  reninin." 

"  I  cannot  !iear  of  it." 

"  If  I  went,  wh.o  would  t.-ike  my  place  and  con- 
sole the  last  moments  of  the  dvintr?" 


fl 


ch'(>\i.\r:f)    AT   i:lim. 


"  Xo  OIK',  I  tc.'ir." 

"  Tlicn  I  shall  stay;  my  dtit}'  is  here." 

"  If  you  arc  (It't'-rmiuccl  to  remain  I  should  advise 
tiiat  you  settle  your  temporal  atlairs,  and  semi  i'arc- 
well  messa<xes  to  your  friends;  for  if  \-ou  ])ersist  in 
,s^oin;j^  anion^r  llie  cholera  stricken,  you  are  a  doometl 
man." 

"Doctor,  it  is  useless  to  say  any  more;  I  am 
rcaily  for  the  worst." 

My  Sunday  tlicre  were  ten  deaths,  and  more 
cases  reported  ;  hut  there  was  service  at  the  kirk  as 
usual.  .\s  the  days  ])assed  the  heat  grew  more  in- 
tense; the  flowers  drooped  in  the  glarim:  sun,  and 
the  grass  was  i)arched  as  with  fire.  In  a  few  days 
the  death  rate  had  increased  alarmingly.  Business 
was  suspended.  The  people  shut  themselves  within 
doors  as  much  as  possilile,  and  there  was  nothing  to 
break  the  awful  silence  which  reigned  in  the  streets, 
hut  the  tolling  of  the  church  bell. 

In  two  weeks  the  villagei.  had  hecome  panic 
stricken  and  refused  to  nurse  the  sick,  outsiiie  of 
their  own  households;  so  the  doctor  and  mini>-er 
nursed  the  patients  themselves.  One  person  o.iiy 
came  to  their  assistance,  and  that  was  Leyden  Bell. 

"This  is  a  serious  business,  Leyden,"  the  nunis- 
ter  said,  "and  you  have  been  doing  so  much  good 
among  the  young  men  recently  that  I  do  not  care  tc 
allow  you  to  risk  your  young  life  in  this  way." 

"Oh,  Mr.  .Mc(ilashan,  is  my  life  or  my  work  for  a 
moment  to  be  com])ared  to  yours  ?  Where  vou  go  I 
shall  gladly  follow." 

"AT  right,  my  boy.  Now  listen:  the  docto.  can- 
not prescribe  for  all  the  patients ;  he  is  too  busy,  and 


CA'oir.V/;/)     AT     /././A/. 


223 


am 


I  know  iioLliin-^  of  nicdk-ine;  l)ut  I  have  already  had 
a  little  success  with  my  treatment.  I  make  parched 
corn  into  cofTee  to  stop  the  vomitin,!,^  and  use  l)urnt 
brandy  and  loaf  sn«,'ar  for  the  pur-;in^^  This  simple 
reme.ly  has  helped  not  a  few.  Have  vou  heard  of 
any  fresh  eases  ?  " 

"John  Hailey.  the  butcher,  died  at  noon." 

"  Is  It  i)ossible?  I  saw  him  this  morning  serving 
customers  at  nine  o'clock." 

"  Ves;  he  said  to  Mrs.  Chisholm  that  he  thought 
of  leaving  town  for  a  time;  ihat  he  was  not  feeling 
well :  and  at  twelve  o'clock  he  was  dead." 

"Oh.  Leyden,  this  is  dreadful!  But  wc  will  do 
what  we  can." 

There  was  no  thought  of  service  at  the  kirk  now. 
The  minister  was  constantly  with  the  sick,  and  the 
people  would  not  go  abroad  for  fear  of  contagion. 
As  David  McCrlashan  went  forth  each  morning,  he 
cast  a  half  wistful  look  over  each  dear  and  familiar 
spot ;  for  he  knew  not  l)ut  that  his  eves  would  be 
closed  in  death  before  night.  So  the  grey  stone 
Manse,  the  shaded  lawn— the  one  green  spot  in  the 
parched  up  country— and  the  winding  river  were  en- 
veloped with  a  tender,  ideal  beauty.  As  he  saw  the 
sun  rise  each  morning,  he  was  repeating  Lanier's 
experience  when  he  wrote: 

"I  must  i)ass  from  thy  face,  I  must  j-ass  from 

t}ic  face  of  the  sun. 
.  .  .  till  vondtT  beside  thee 
My  soul  shall  float,  friend  Sun, 

The  day  being  done." 

He  never  seemed   to   think   it   possible    that   he 
could   escape   the  dread   disease;   yet   death   had  no 


21' I- 


Ci\(>nxi;i)    AT    iii.iM. 


terrors  )r  liiin.  Ik-  was  as  oiu'  wearied  willi  a  Ioiil; 
(lay's  work,  and  lookinj;  forward  lo  rcsi  at  tveiitide. 

Lcvdcn  wcirkcd  laiLlifully,  never  sparine,'  himself 
a  moment.  He  was  everywhere  where  a  helping,' 
hand  was  needed. 

"  Voii  are  working  too  hard.  Leyden ;  you  had 
better  go  home  and  take  a  rest,"  said  David  Me- 
(ilashan  one  day,  as  he  saw  the  young  man's  white 
faee.  Leyden  tried  to  reply,  but  all  strength  suddenly 
left  him  and  he  fell  uneonscious  to  the  floor.  Thev 
carried  him  home  and  he  lay  uneonscious  for  hours; 
then  he  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled  when  he  saw  his 
friend  sitting  by  liim. 

"Leyden,  dear  boy,  you  must  get  better,"  said 
the  minister.     •■  I  cannot  spare  you." 

"  Had  I  died  a  (innikard,y<)u  might  havegrieved, 
Mr.  McGlashan;  but  now,  through  your  eflbrts.  all 
is  different.  I  was  a  brand  plucked  from  the  burning. 
The  Saviour  has  been  merciful." 

"  Yes,  I  have  never  ceased  to  thank  Him  for  lead- 
ing you  out  of  that  dtmgerous  path.  But  I  have 
learned  to  look  to  you  as  my  r  t  hand.  I  cannot 
part  with  you  .low." 

"Some  one  will  fill  my  place,  and  accomplish 
more  than  I  have  been  able  to." 

At  sundown  he  passed  away.  The  villagers 
heard  of  his  death  with  sorrow,  and  in  the  clu'unber 
where  he  lay,  his  friends  gathered,  the  terror  of  the 
plague  overcome  by  the  longing  to  get  a  last  look  at 
his  loved  face.  All  who  came  owed  something  to  his 
earnest  work.  Rut  for  his  influence  in  the  hour  of 
temptation  what  would  tb'w  Ijc  now?  — they  shud- 
dered to  think. 


Al    iiii(hiiL,flil 
spraii-   iij 
wrarv  watchers 


C !<<>  \V \i:it 


.17      III.IM. 


IS 


ram     lic^^aii    lo    iall  ;    a    re iVcs i i i n uc 
hrc-czc  spraii-  up.  and  hope  came  to  tr.e  sick  'mi\  the 

Two  weeks  I.'iier  a  iiniiee  wa; 
nailed  lo  the  post  ofhee  (h)oi-,  ami  the  ^lad  intelli 
.uenee  whieli  it  eontaiiicd  was  passed  ea-er!v  from 
li]'  to  lip.     The  notice  read  : 

"  We  are  ihankful  to  inform  tiie  piiMic  tliat  the 
townoi  Riverside  is  now  almost  free  from  tlie  plamie. 
A  service  of  Tlianksyivini,'  for  the  stayin-^  of  this 
dread  disease  will  he  held  at  the  kirk"  tomorro\v, 
Wednesday,  mornin^j^  at  eleven  o'clock." 

At  tile  appointeil  hour  the  pc'.ple   were  in   their 
places.     A  hush  fell  on  the  con;,^re<.:ation  ;is  the  min- 
ister entered  the  pul])it.      Pale  and  thin  with  nuich 
watchins,^  he  seemed  more  a  si)irit  tlian  a  man.     He 
looked  for  a  moment  at  the  people  clad  in  mournin-, 
and  then  at  the  places  made  vacant  hy  death,  and 
a  look  of  unutterable  sadness  crossed  liis  face.     He 
raised  his  hands,  alabaster-like  in  their  transparency, 
and  the  people  bowed   in  })rayer.      At  his  words  of 
intercession,  peace  entered  the  hearts  of  the  bereaved 
ones.     They  lifted  their  tear-stained  faces  anrl  looked 
off  across  the  river  on  the  hillside,  where  the  manv 
fresh  mounds  told  ail  too  jjlainly  of  the  havoc  which 
thepla.i^ue  had  caused.      Antl  they  were  able  to  sav 
for  the  first  time,  "  The  Lord  gave  and  the  Lord  lu'itii 
taken  away.     Blessed  be  the  name  of  tlie  Lord." 


226 


L'AV>ir.\7;/)     .4  7'     Ul.lM. 


CIIAPTHR     XXII. 


MADAMH  ZAMOYSKI  and  Trctna  had  startctl 
on  a  V  Llirougli  Iuir()i)c.  jusl  as  slit-  had  tohl 
David  Mo(ilashan  that  they  iiitciulcd  doiiij^. 
She  was  anxious  to  leave  St.  I'etersl)urg  for  two 
reasons.  I'irst.  she  was  afraid  that  notwitlistanding 
what  she  Iiad  said,  David  nii;j;ht  eonie  for  his  wife; 
and  seeondly.she  was  worried  about  Trenia's  health. 
She  was  failin;^;  rapidly.  The  family  physician  had 
said  she  would  ^o  into  a  decline  it"  she  did  not  iin- 
j)rove,  and  Madame  Zamoyski  hoped  that  constant 
excitement  would  banish  the  listless  apathy  into 
which  she  had  fallen.  So  they  left  the  city  not  lon;^ 
after  the  burial  of  the  Countess.  Trenia  scarcely 
iiKiuired  wh.ere  they  were  going.  She  was  little 
interested  in  the  trip.  She  saw  the  domes  of  St. 
Isaac's  and  St.  .Mexandcr  Xevoski  disappear  witliout 
regret.  .\nd  there  was  little  to  attract  her  attention 
as  theysped  across  miles  u])on  miles  of  an  uninterest- 
ing waste.  They  ])assed  ( latschina  with  its  moscpie- 
like  palace,  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  solitary-  plain; 
then  on  again,  past  towns  with  bulb-like  cupolas 
and  ancient  churches. 

At  Wilna.  the  chief  town  of  Lithuania.  Trema  for 
the  first  tiineevinced  an  interest  in  thesccnes  through 
which  they  were  passing.     She  had  heard  her  father 


CRn\\M:i,       IV      /; /./.!(, 


sjicak  (il   Wiiii.i.     It.  \\,-is.'i  n.-mu-  projniiuni  ;ii  I'nli^h 
liistory. 

They  rctnaiiK-d  some'  tiiii--  in  W.-ir^-.-iw.  and  Tivnia 
for   the  Inst   time  in   weeks  l)c^s'in  to  appear  like  her- 
seh.      She  was  never  tired  "f  '^(>\u>^  about   ihe  citv  ; 
watehin-,^    tiie    i)e()ple    in    their   smart    national   C()S- 
tunies;    visitin-    tlie    different    i)id)Me    >,'ardciis— the 
Sa-ki    o-rod,   with  its  ionntains,  t!ie    Lazicnki    <rar- 
deiis,   witii   its  >iia(]y  alleys,    artitleial    ponds,    rnins, 
villas  and  miniature    prdaees.      One  day  they  drove 
<'own    the    Krakowskie    Pr/edmie>eie.  and  the  I'jaz- 
dowska    Alija    Avenue,    past     the    Carmelite    chnreh 
where  the  erown  arehivesof   I'ol.-ind  are  kejjt  ;  jjast 
Rad/iwill     Palace    to    the    Saxon    .Lrarden,    past     the 
ehureh  ol   the   Holy  Cross,  ereeted  in   ir.vj;   j,.,^^  ^l^^. 
palaeeof  the  Krasinskis  to  the  i)al;iee  of  the   Xam- 
oyskis— the  liome  of  the  Zamoyskis  no  lonirer.     Tliev 
alii^hted.  and  o])tained  permission  to  ,l:o  t!ironL;li  the 
palati.'d  ])nildim:. 

"When  did  ])apa's  people  ^'o  to  Russia?"  Trema 
asked,  as  they  passed  from  one  spaeious  room  to 
another. 

"  I  don't  remember  the  year,  l)ut  I  have  a  letter 
whieh  your  father  wrote  to  me  a  e(niple  of  davs  he- 
fore  our  marrian:e,  in  whieh  he  tells  aliout  his  "father 
heint:  taken  prisoner.  You  will  find  the  date  in 
that." 

•  It  must  1)e  a  very  intercstin.i,'  letter.  Whv  did 
you  never  show  it  to  me?  I  should  have  liked  to  see 
it  very  much." 

"Because  when  your  father  saw  it  one  dav  he 
asked  me  why  I  had  kept  it  so  loni;.  and  1  told  him 
that  I  would  on  no  account  jiart  with  it.     To  whieh 


:t 


228 


Ck'(f\v\i:n    AT   r.i.iM. 


he  rciilicd  :  '  Well,  if  yon  will  kcc])  it,  (lo  not  show  it 
to  'rn-m.i.  for  she  nii>;ht  resent  my  iiiotlur's  treat- 
ment of  me,  ami  there  has  always  heeii  sueli  n  marked 
frieti(lshi|)  between  the  two  th;it  it  would  be  a  pitv 
to  spoil  it.'  Hut  there  is  now  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  see  it." 

Wluii  they  ii.id  admired  the  be.iutifal  ceilings, 
fine  w;ill>  .uid  iiiinal  imiii tiii>,'s,  M;idaiiie  Z.'imovski 
said  : 

"  I  thiidc  you  will  luulerstaiid  now,  Treina,  wliv 
it  was  a  mistake  for  you  to  m;irrv  in  Canada.  Heini; 
a  Zamoyski  you  would  undoubtedly  have  been  the 
mistress  of  one  of  Warsaw's  one  hundred  and  sixtv 
palaees." 

"Mother.  Ii.'id  1  my  elioiee  ai^.'iin  1  should  still 
ehoo-.  It.ivid  MeCdashan  in  preference  to  .-my  Ivuro- 
pean  jjrinee.  I  still  believe  him  to  be  one  of  the 
noblest  of  men.  1  have  been  thiidduL;  everything!; 
over,  and  I  believe  that  I  w.-is  wr(;n;.r  to  ^.jive  wav  to 
my  i)ride.  I  should  h.'ive  left  no  stone  unturned  to 
find  out  the  liuth.  I'or  he  is  still  my  husband,  and 
dearer  to  me  than  all  the  work!  beside.  I  have 
written  hini  another  letter.  I  mailed  it  when  I  was 
out  for  a  walk  this  mornin^^  I  am  eonfulent  (  •'  an 
answer,  and  Havidwill  explain  ;dl  this  tra.ij^ie  silenee." 

Written  another  letter  I  Madame  Zamoyski  was 
amazed.  She  thought  that  Trema  had  !.;iven  up  all 
ho])e  of  a  rec(jneiliation.  She  had  thou,urht  that  her 
l)lans  had  worked  admirably.  Now  she  mi<fht  anv 
day  be  found  out. 

With  llle-■^e  thou<jhts  en^rossin,f?  her  mind,  she 
could  no  lon.iier  tind  pleasure  in  the  Zamoyski  palace. 
After  they  relumed  to  their  hotel  she  was  still  rest- 


(   A'"IIV/;/;     .IV     III.IM. 


229 


'^•>^s.  Shr  u.-mtcd  t..  -ct  avvav  from  Warsaw  How 
c'-nl.l  a  Icttrr  find  Trcna  i."  tht-y  were  travelling'  all 
llK'  tunc?  She  would  start  at  once  for  Fk-rlin.  She 
l>r()aehe(l  thesnl)icct  to  her  dauL^hter  before  retiring,'. 
"<•<>  to  Herlin!"  exclaimed  Treina.  "We  have 
liist  l.ccn  a  tew  days  here.  Whv  shonl.l  we  he  in  a 
Inirry  to  continue  our  tour?  I  think  Warsaw  lovely 
J  could  spend  an..thei  two  months  here,  at  least 
In.leed.  I  think  I  could  live  a  year  here  and  not  ^.^row 
weary  of  ,t.  There  are  so  maiiv  intcrestin.'  thini;s 
l<»  see."  ■  ^'^ 

•Well,  Trema.  I  am  heartilv  tired  of  this  place 
e<Mmtess  Hrantzinkis  tells  me  that  she  and  the  Count 
start    for  Ikrlin  to-morrow  morning,  and  I  think  it 
would  })e  nice  tt)  travel  with  them." 

"Oil,  very  well,  mother;  thou-li  I  should  have 
preferred  rem.-dniuK  lonk'tr  in  Warsaw.  Mother,  you 
mustn't  for^a-t  your  promise  about  that  letter.  Will 
you  let  me  see  it  now?" 

When    Madame    Zaniovski    brou-ht    tlie    letter 
Trema  opened  it  tenderly.     It  seemed  'Mve  a  messa-^e 
from  the  dead.     It  was  written  in  the  neat,  tine  hand 
which  her  father  always  wrote,  and  was  dated  three 
years  before  her  birth. 

My  rtenrcst  Mirinm  :  ^'"■"''"■-  >'"'    '^'^''   ^■'*•'^• 

After  your  self-sacrificin<?  promise  of  this  after- 
noon, I  feel  that  you  should  know  more  of  mv  early 
history,  and  why  I.  a  Zatnoyski  of  Poland,  should  be 
teaching  music  in  London.  Often  I  have  been  on  the 
verge  of  telljng  you  something  of  mvself.  but  was 
restramed  l)y  thinking  that  I  was  simpiv  vour  music 
teacher,  and  you  would  not  be  interested  in  anvthin- 


■j:w 


Ch'()W\i:i)     AT     ELIM. 


I  had  to  say.  Iiow  little  I  drcanied  that  you  had 
learned  to  eare  ior  ine — an  uninterestinj:^  stranj^er. 

And  now,  if  I  have  scarcely  mentioned  my  child- 
hood's hoi.ie,  it  is  because  many  thinj^^s  in  my  home 
life  are  not  pleasant  to  recall.  My  father  died  when 
I  was  one  year  old.  He  had  been  taken  piisoner  bN- 
the  Pussians,  at  Poland's  downfall,  in  1795.  But 
at  the  accession  of  Paul,  he  was  released  and  offered 
a  liinii  military  position,  which  he  accepted.  Aly 
mother,  also,  was  of  the  Polish  nobility.  Her  father 
had  suffered  the  same  fate  as  mine,  and  she  went 
with  him  to  Russia.  In  lSO!t,  .ny  ])arents  were 
married,  but  the  seven  years"  imprisonment  had 
told  on  my  fatlier's  health.  They  lived  very  happily 
for  tw()  short  years,  then  he  died.  A  cou])le  of  years 
later,  my  motiier  married  Count  Stro<^anoff,  a  Rus- 
sian. It  was  n"t  the  happy  marriage  that  the  first 
one  was,  for  Count  Stroganoff  is  a  stern,  arrogant 
man.  However,  as  a  child  I  saw  very  little  of  him. 
My  n)other  was  my  world.  She  seemed  to  lavish  .all 
her  love  upon  me,  and  this  ha])})y  life  continued  till 
my  little  brother,  Ivan  Stroganoff,  was  about  four 
years  old. 

It  ha  1  been  lier  habit  to  come  into  the  nurserv 
at  bed-time  and  tell  me  stories — very  often  of  events 
in  Poland;  ibr,  though  she  was  only  eight  years  old 
when  she  came  to  Russia, yet  the  exi)eriences  through 
which  slie  had  ])  issed  were  too  terrible  ever  to  be 
effaced  fro!ii  her  memory.  .\nd  she  would  give  me 
llie  details  of  tiiat  dreadful  time  m  all  ih.eir  awfid 
vividness,  till  the  crash  of  battle  was  in  my  ears, 
and  I  im,'ii;ined  that  I  heard  the  cries  of  wailiiiir 
which  rent  the  aii".     A>  the  tale  progressed,  and  she 


CRr)\y\-j:i)    .17-     /;/./u.  o.'Jl 

would  clescrHK'  how  lier  beautiful  home  was  demol- 
ishtd  and  the  Vistula  ran  blood.  I  would  clench  my 
little  fists,  foriretting  that  Russia  was  my  birthplace. 
Tins  story  never  lost  its  interest,  and  th(,ugh  I 
would  be  almost  sickened  with  the  horror  of  it,  yet 
I  would  beg  her  to  tell  it  to  me  again  and  again. 
But  young  as  Ivan  was  at  this  time,  he  seemed  to 
comprehcml  it  all,  and  one  day  when  she  was  telling 
me  the  story  at  my  special  request,  he  slapped  her  on 
the  mouth  and  said  :  "  Stop.  I  am  a  Russian  !  "  She 
was  dumbfounded  at  the  insult,  as  well  as  at  the 
n-velation.  She  saw  that  she  was  sowing  discord 
between  her  two  children. 

She  never  told  me  stories  of  I'oland  again.  And 
she  came  less  and  le^s  to  the  nursery.  "l  felt  this 
chan-e  keenly,  for  I  had  already  noticed  the  atten- 
tion that  was  paid  to  Ivan.  When  he  was  ten  vears 
old  he  had  a  tutor  (as  well  a-,  a  German  and  French 
master),  a  wardrobe  keeper,  two  personal  attend- 
ants, and  a  valet,  while  I,  who  was  four  vears  his 
senior,  had  only  my  tutor. 

Though  I  \Nondered  why  Ivan  should  have  so 
much,  the  real  reason  never  occurred  to  me  till  one 
day  we  were  playing  on  the  lawn  and  I  did  some- 
thing to  displease  him,  when  he  stopped  in  his  i)lay, 
and  pointing  to  me  with  his  finger,  said,  "  Pauper  P' 
Then,  seeing  how  angry  I  became  at  the  insult,  he 
said  more  tauntnigly  still,  "  Behold  the  pauper! ''  I 
was  beside  myself  with  rage.  I  could  have  trampled 
him  under  my  foot,  but  I  did  not  touch  him.  I 
seemed  paralyzed  with  anger,  till  even  he  became 
frightened  at  my  expression  and  started  to  run 
away,  calling  over  his  shoulder.  "  Mushik,  mushik  !  " 


232 


CR()]V\ni)     AT     EI.  IV. 


I  fi.  ng  myself  on  a  garden  sea*  in  a  moment  my 
anger  was  gone,  and  my  wounded  jn-ide  found  vent 
in  tears.  It  was  all  too  +rue.  I  was  a  i^auper.  I 
was  not  Count  StroganofTs  son.  Ivan  was  heir  to 
the  estate,  to  the  palace,  and  was  master  of  one 
hi  idred  and  twenty  servants.  I  was  not  heir  to 
one  rouble,  for  my  father  had  not  been  able  to  re- 
trieve his  fallen  fortunes  in  the  short  time  which 
elapsed  between  his  freedom  and  his  death.  No;  I 
was  living  on  charity.  I  was  no  better  off  than  a 
common  mushik.  I  spent  some  hours  in  t!.-  very 
depths  of  despair,  until  my  tutor  found  me  and 
inquii-ed  the  cause  of  my  tronl)le.  It  was  a  relief  to 
pour  out  my  grief  to  him.  He  was  kind  and  sym- 
pathetic, and  told  me  not  to  take  Ivan's  taunt  too 
much  to  heart;  that  though  I  was  poor,  I  was  not  a 
mushik;  that  the  Zamoyskis  were  as  illustrious  in 
Poland  as  the  StroganofTs  were  in  Russia;  that  it 
was  not  my  fault  if  political  events  had  brought  ruin 
on  nu'  house. 

"Do  not  spend  your  time  in  repining."  he  said, 
"but  learn  all  you  can,  and  some  day  you  may  turn 
3'our  knowledge  to  Poland's  Ijenefit." 

I  think  he  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  what 
he  said;  he  juft  v.-anted  to  make  me  feel  better  for 
the  time.  But  his  words  became  my  guiding  star. 
From  that  hour  my  whole  thoughv  was  Poland,  and 
in  i)roportion  as  I  loved  the  land  of  my  fathers  I 
hated  Russia.  In  my  drea.ms  I  saw  myself  one  of 
Poland's  liberators,  and  always  there  was  at  my 
side  Prince  Adam  Czartoryski,  my  Polish  Prince— 
n:y  hero. 

For  the  next  two  years  I  studied  diligently,  and 


■^ 


ck-(j\vxi:i)    A  T    i:i.iM 


at  the  a<^e  of  sixteen  I 
I 


was  readv  to  enter  V.\<j  { 


233 


niver- 


sity.  I  wanted  to  l;o  to  Warsaw.  T'nis,  at  first, 
was  objeeted  to,  hut  as  my  mother  was  anxious  that 
I  shouhl  .u:o,  permission  was  at  last  obtained.  M\- 
mother  lelt  my  departure  very  mr.eli,  tor  tlioutjh  she 
had  been  less  demonstrative  in  her  maniier  in^those 
later  years,  yet  she  loved  me  still.  I  think  that  the 
eause  of  the  ehan.-^-c  in  her  manner  to  .vards  me  was 
that  Count  Stro^anoff  was  intensely  jealous  of  me, 
and  imagined  that  she  eared  more  fot-  me  tl:an  Ivan,' 
and  to  preserve  harmony  in  the  household  she  openlv 
showed  me  less  affeetion. 

I  foiuul  myself  in  a  new  world  at  Warsaw.  The 
name  ot  Zamoyski  seemed  an  open  sesame  to  e.erv 
honor.  I  led  in  all  thin<,-s,  and  the  other  students 
seemed  willing  to  let  me  lead.  I  was  home  twiee  to 
St.  Petersl)urg  for  my  holidays.  The  last  tinie  I  saw 
my  mother  was  six  weeks  before  that  never-to-be- 
forgotten  November  30th.  She  had  changed  sinee 
the  time  when  she  told  me  stories  in  the  nurserv. 
She  was  no  longer  sunny  or  ])layful.  but  had.  becon'ie 
a  reserved  and  unapproachable  woman. 

A  new  interest  was  added  to  my  life  at  the  Uni- 
versity when  I  found  that  there  were  otliers  who, 
like  myself,  looked  for  the  deliverance  of  Poland  froni 
her  enemies.  We  formed  a  little  clicpie.  and  when  the 
moment  came  we  were  ready.  Of  the  failure  of  that 
insurrection  you  know.  But  Prince  dc  Tallevrand 
still  w-rote  encouragingly  to  Prince  .Vdam  "Czar- 
toryski,  our  leader,  and  advised  him  to  go  to 
London  (where  he.  Prince  Talleyrand,  was  7dling 
the  position  of  Ambassador  for  Lon's  Pliillip)  and 
plead  his  country's  eause  in   ])erson.     Prin.e   Ad.'ini 


2r>i 


CRnwxni)     AT    ELTM. 


and  myself  cnmc  as  lie  aflviscd,  and  so  ended  all  my 
boyish  dreams. 

I  ni!i>t  have  been  born  under  an  unfortunate  star, 
for,  havint;  the  advantai^es  of  noble  birth,  edueation, 
and  distiuLjuished  friends,  at  the  age  of  twenty-five  I 
have  less  of  this  world's  goods  than  many  who  have 
iK'gun  their  career  as  a  street  sweep.  But  I  mrstnot 
enlarge  upon  my  woes. 

And  now  if,  after  what  I  have  told  you,  you  are 
willing  to  give  u])  home  and  friends  for  unfortunate 
me,  I  can  only  thai.  God  for  your  devoted  love, 
little  oTie,  and  I  shall  try  to  over-rule  circumstances 
and  bring  a  measure  of  prosperity  and  joy  to  our 
lives. 

YOTR    DHVOTKD   CaSUMIR. 


They  arrived  in  due  time  at  Berlin,  but  Madame 
Zamoyski  did  not  feel  satisfied  as  she  imagined  that 
she  would.  She  found  that  Trema  had  left  particular 
instructions  with,  the  postoffice  authorities  to  have 
her  mail  forwarded  to  Berlin. 

"  I  need  a  maid,"  the  Madame  was  thinking  one 
morning  as  she  was  walking  in  thel'nter  den  Linden, 
"lam  so  sorry  tliat  Catherine  would  not  leave  St. 
Petersburg;  she  was  such  a  helji.  I  need  a  trust- 
worthy maid  who  would  watch  the  mails  for  me. 
Trema  must  not  hear  from  David.  Now.  if  I  had 
some  one  in  my  employ  who  was  not  working  for 
money  merely,  but  from  gratitude  of  some  kind — that 
would  lie  the  thing.  But  in  a  foreign  country  it  is 
impossible  to  engage  anyone  imder  those  conditions. 
There  is  )  young  gii  i  1  What  can  Vie  the  matter  with 
her?     How   white  she  is  I      And    what  a   distressed 


CR()\VXl-n     AT     ELIM. 


2v35 


look  there  is  in  her  heaulii'ul  dark   eyes.'     KvidciUly 

slic  is  not  a  (ierman." 

She  addressed  the  ;^irl  in  German,  and  when  she 

did  not  seem    to  comprehend,  repeated  lier  (piestion 

in  French.     The  girl  rephed   in   a  curious  mixture  of 

FVench  and  Italian. 

"Madame,  I  am  far  from  home;  witliout  friends, 

without    money.     I    am    hungry— I    am    starving.     I 

was  about  to  take  this  poison  to  end  mv  life." 
"My  poor  child!" 
.\t  the  expression    of  loving  sympalhv,  the  girl 

liurst  into  tears.     Tiiey  were  tlie  rtrsc  kind  wor'ls  she 

had  heard  for  months. 

"  There,  there,  my  child.     Do  not  cry,  l)ut  tell  me 

all  about  it,"  said  Madame  Zamoyski,  seating   her- 
self by  the  girl's  side. 

Her  story  in  brief  was  this :  Her  home  was  at 
Capri.  She  had  r><>ver  left  the  Island,  !)ut  as  she 
grew  up  she  had  longed  to  know  what  the  world 
was  like  beyond  her  island  home.  Six  months  a<'o 
her  wish  was  gratified.  She  had  I)een  engaged  as 
maid  by  a  (jcrman  lady— a  tourist  at  Capri.  When 
the  lady  was  leaving  the  island  she  asked  I-'ilomena 
to  go  with  her  to  Germany.  Filomena  was  delighted 
with  the  thought  of  seeing  the  world.  \\\  v.\d  dame 
went  to  the  hotel  Tiberio  for  her  trunk.  It  is  the 
custom  at  Ca])r!  for  women  toearry  burdens  on  their 
heads,  as  the  paths  are  too  steep  for  mules.  When 
the  old  dame  had  carried  the  trunk  down  to  the 
Granda  Marina  (Great  Beach),  and  they  were  wait- 
ing for  the  German  lady  to  arrive,  the  old  woman 
had  told  I-'ilomena's  fortune.  She  p'redicted  that  t!ie 
young  girl  would  be  sorry  for  leaving  her  home,  and 


2:\c, 


CA'Oir.V/:/^     AT     EI.IM. 


that  she  woiihl  ccmic  to  <,Ticf  in  a  foreign  land.  Then 
after  vainly  attetn])tinfi  to  dissuade  iMloniena  from 
lcavin>,r  home,  she  ,i,^'lvc  her  a  Httle  Ijox  saying  tliat 
the  drug  wliich  it  contained  was  a  cure  for  all 
troubles;  that  they  who  took  it  just  fell  asleep,  and 
left  no  sign.  Filomena  did  not  believe  any  of  her 
predictions,  but  as  the  box  was  pretty  she  kept  it. 

Filomena  and  her  mistress  went  up  through  Italy 
to  Switzerland,  and  stayed  there  before  going  on  to 
Berlin.  It  was  at  Berlin  that  disaster  came.  A 
domestic  in  the  hotel  stole  some  of  the  German  lady's 
jewels,  and  contrived  to  throw  the  blame  on  Filo- 
mena. She  was  put  in  prison,  and  was  only  released 
some  months  later,  when  the  domestic  found  her 
conscience  troublesome  and  confessed.  As  soon  as 
she  was  set  at  liberty  she  made  incjuiries  about  her 
mistress,  and  found  that  she  had  gone  on  to  her 
home  in  Hamburg. 

Then  followed  weeks  of  misery  for  the  poor 
young  girl.  She  understood  but  little  German.  She 
had  no  letters  oi  reference,  and  no  friends.  She 
sought  employment  in  vain.  The  time  came  when 
her  last  ])fennig  was  gone,  and  she  had  nothing  to 
look  forward  to  1)ut  starvation.  Last  night  she  had 
dreamed  of  Capri ;  of  her  home  perched  high  on  the 
mighty  rock,  and  of  the  vineclad  hills.  Once  again 
she  was  among  the  cymbal-playing  youths  and 
maidens  who  danced  and  sang  on  the  great  flat  roof 
in  the  radiant  moonlight.  Then  she  awoke,  and 
Capri  was  far  away.  She  would  never  again  climb 
its  precipitous  paths,  nor  with  her  merry  companions 
tread  m  the  winepress,  nor  watch  old  Vesuvius  toss 
up  his  cap  of  smoke.    She  was  slowly  starving.    She 


CRoWXni)     AT     i:j,i^f,  237 

had  that  ni()rnin<,r  ;^ro„e  out  as  usual  in  quest  of 
eniployment.  only  to  meet  with  disappointment  as 
before.  Utterly  hopeless  and  miseral)le  she  had  sat 
down  under  the  limes  in  the  T'nter  den  Linden.  Slie 
had  wondered  how  many  davs  it  would  take  her  to 
'he.  She  still  had  the  little  box;  she  took  it  out 
and  looked  at  it.  It  was  horrible  to  die  bv  inches ; 
better  take  the  poison  and  end  her  s-«ering.  She 
was  just  about  to  put  the  fatal  drug  to  her  lips 
when  Madame  Zamoyski  addressed  her. 

"This  is  my  story,  Madame,"  she  concluded. 
"You  may  deliver  me  up  to  the  authorities  if  vou 
choose.  My  life  cannot  be  any  more  horrible  than  it 
is  at  present." 

"My  dear  girl."  answered  the  Madame,  taking 
possession  of  the  little  box,  "I  have  no  idea  of 
dehvermg  you  up  to  the  authorities.  I  believe  your 
story ;  it  is  a  most  pathetic  one,  and  I  am  read'y  to 
assist  you  if  you  will  allow  me.  I  left  mv  maid  in 
St.  Petersburg,  and  shall  be  pleased  to  have  vou  in 
her  place." 

"Oh.  Madame!"  exclaimed  Filomena.  "how 
kind  you  are!  I  will  gladly  be  vour  maid,  vour 
faithful  slave— anything.  How  shall  I  ever  be  "able 
to  thank  you?" 

"A  willing  service  is  all  the  return  I  wish." 


i.':;s 


CKdWM'.l)     AT     I-LIM. 


f  f 


CHAPTER     XXIII. 

AI'TIvR  scvL-ral  weeks  sojourn  in  I'leriin.  Trenia 
l)e;^an  to  despoiul.  She  thought  that  it  was 
al)t)ut  time  that  she  was  hearin<^  from  Havid. 
But,  imibrtunately,  Iier  letter  reaehed  Riverside  at 
the  time  of  the  cholera;  the  town  was  quarantined, 
the  mails  neglecle<l.  and  David  McGlashan  never  re- 
ceived the  letter.  In  the  meantime,  Madame  Zamoy- 
ski  thouLTht  it  l)etter  not  to  remain  too  lonj^  in  one 
place  till  there  was  no  longer  the  ijossibility  of  any 
communication  between  David  and  Trema.  So, 
much  to  Trema's  annoyance,  she  was  carried  off  to 
Switzerland  ami  tiien  to  Mentone.  Not  that  she 
had  any  objecti(Mi  to  these  beautiful  places,  but  she 
was  afraid  David's  letter  would  go  astray.  Other- 
wise, she  would  have  been  very  ha])i)y  in  these  plav- 
grounds  of  the  world.  Switzerland  had  charmed 
her,  and  Alentoae  she  thought  a  very  good  place  in 
which  to  dream  away  one's  life.  Indeed,  the  whole 
Riviera,  beginning  at  St.  Raphael  and  ending  at 
Genoa,  w.-is  (Hie  long,  changing,  shifting  scene  of 
beauty — a  succession  of  (juaint  towns,  of  s^ipphire 
bays,  red  clifls,  and  rocky,  lighthouse-crowned  islets; 
while  Mentone,  itself  lay  half  hidden  among  lemon 
and  orange  trees.  In  the  distance,  llie  cliffs  and 
lortificaiions   of    X'entimiglia  gleamed   white   in  the 


CA''Mr.v/;/j    AT    1:1.1  M.  ^,^9 

sun;  whili'  afar  ..tV  rose  the  purple  liills  which  hem 
n.  S.-in  kemo.  If  Trema's  davs  had  not  been  one 
I<)n-  worry,  slie  wouhl  have  been  verv  happv  in 
picturesque,  dreamy  Mentone,  with  the  surf  of  the 
Mediterranean  siti^Hn^^  the  Httle  town  eternallv  to 
sleej). 

One  evenin^^r,  while  admiring   the  view  from  the 
balcony   of  the   liotel.   she  saw   three   persons    step 
ashore  from   a  yacht.      Their  striking    appearance 
attracted    her    attention.      She    noticed    the    eldest 
.gentleman    Hrst;    he   had   such  a  princely  air  about 
him.     As  he  came  up  the  path  he  removed  his  hat, 
and  the  breeze  j^layed   in   his  white  hair,  tossing  it 
back  from  a  forehead  of  imperial  dignity.      As  thev 
approached    the    hotel,   he  raised    his    eves    to    the 
l)alcony,   and   their  dark   brilliancv   was    in  stron- 
contrast  to  the  snow-white   hair.      The  genJeman 
who  walked  by  his  side  was  quite  as  distinguished 
as  his  companion,  though  he  was  a  vounger  and  less 
handsome  man.     Behind  them  came  a  magnificently 
attired  officer. 

"  Mother,  come  here !    Who  can  those  gentlemen 
be?  "  she  asked,  in  an  excited  whisper. 

"The  younger  gentleman  to  the  right,"  said  her 
mother,  coming  to  her  side,  "is  His  Highness,  the 
Prince  of  Monaco,  whose  palace  is  perched  high  on 
the  clifiF  yonder;  and  the  person  in  uniform  is  a  staff 
officer.  The  elderly  gentleman  is  a  stranger  around 
here.  Why,  I  do  believe,"  she  added  excitedly,  "it  is 
Prince  Adam  Czartoryski !  " 

And  Prince  Adam  it  was,  indeed.  His  two  com- 
panions waited  in  the  garden  while  he  went  up  to 
the  balcony  alone. 


210  cl^■l>\\■\[:n    AT    i:i.iM. 

"I  h.'ivt'  not  ct)iiic  ill  vain,"  lie  sriid,  as  lie  drew 
near.    "This  is,  without  (l()ul)t,  .\  adanie  Zauioyski  " 

"Your  Ivxeelleney  has  a  j^^ood  nieniory.  Wiiat 
a  jtleasure  it  is  to  see  you  onee  aj^ain,  luoii  I'riiiec. 
Allow  me  to  j)reseiit  tiiy  dauf^hter  Mrs.  MeCdashan." 

"  Is  it  i)ossil)le  that  this  is  the  little  ;,'olden-liaire(l 
fairy  who  was  sueh  an  interesting.;  eoni])anion  at 
Lueernc?"  said  the  I'rinee,  taking  Trema's  hand  and 
lookin<;  kindly  into  the  smiling  blue  eyes.  "And 
married,  too!  I  assure  you  that  I  was  more  than 
surprised  to  hear  it;  for  it  seems  to  me  no  time 
sinee  Casimir  eame  to  me  with  all  the  troubles  of  his 
loveafVair.  It  makes  me  feel  that  I  must  he  getting 
very  old  to  address  Trema  as  Madame."' 

"Yes,  time  tlies  (juiekly.  May  I  ask  what  hajjjn- 
ehanee  brought  you  to  these  shores  just  now,  nion 
I'rinee?"  asked  Madame  Zamoyski. 

"  I  was  visiting  with  His  Highness  when  I  re- 
ceived a  letter  from  Prince  Mentschakoff,  in  which  he 
said  that  the  daughter-in-law  and  granddaughter  of 
the  late  Countess  Stroganoflf  contemplated  staying 
some  weeks  at  Mentone.  Tpon  making  imiuiries  I 
found  that  you  had  already  arrived,  and  I  lost  no 
time  in  coming  to  see  you.  I  hope  I  find  you  both 
well.  Your  daughter  is  looking  rather  frail.  Docs 
Mrntone  not  agree  with  you?"  he  asked,  addressing 
Trema. 

"  Mentone  is  not  tlie  cause  of  my  poor  health. 
I  was  feeling  miserable  when  I  came  here.  Though 
it  is  getting  ahuost  too  warm  now  for  comfort.  But 
they  say  that  it  is  (me  of  the  most  delightful  places 
in  the  world  in  winter  time." 

"  Yes,  it  is  indeed  ;  but  now  it  is  rather  warm.     I 


C  h<i  W  .\I.  li       1  ■/      1.  !.l  Af, 


I'U 


I  think  I  sIimU  1i,-ivc  u,  (.-.in-y  yen  !..,ili  ,,\Y  to  inv 
chalc-au  ni  M..nUc-niuci.  Ii  •.vill'sccin  like-  ol.I  limjs 
lor  you  to  -o  hack  thcrr.  Madame  Xaiiiovski.  I 
suppose  cviMi  Trcina  rciufiulicr^  somciiiin^  of  it," 

'•Indeed  I  do.  nion  I'ruue.  It  seems  tn  me  al- 
ways like  a  tairy  world.  I  shall  he  very  -1;m1  Lo  sec 
the  chateau  a;j;aiii." 

"I  hope  your  present  visit  will  not  dispel  vour 
early  fancies.  Thin-s  often  appe.ir  s(;  diffen.-nt  when 
one  is  -rown  up.  Now,  I  must  call  my  friend.  Ik- 
will  think  I  am  ne,i,dectinL,'  liitn." 

When  Aladame  Zam-.y-ki  and  Trem.i  had  ]kx'\\ 
introduced  to  His  IIi,i.,diness,  ihey  passed  a  pleasant 
half  hour  in  merry  chat;  and  then  followed  a  lively 
discussion  over  the  respective  merits  of  Mentone  and 
Lucerne. 

••I  think  you  must  come  up  to  m\-  palace  and 
have  luncheon  on  the  lerrace,"  said  the  Triujc  of 
Monaco,  "and  you  will  not  a-^ain  complain  of  tlie 
extreme  heat  of  the  Kiveria." 

The    week  which    followed  was  a    pleasant    one. 
Both  Trema  and  her  mother  were  verv  .i^iad   to  see 
Prince  Adam.     To  Madame  Zamoyski  he  was  esi)e- 
cially  dear,  as  he  had  seemed  like  a  father  to  herself 
and  Casimii .     He  v   is  anxious  to  liear  all  aI)out  her 
hushand's  last  illness,  for  he  had  loved  him  as  a  sou. 
and  had  heen  sorely  grieved    at  Iiis  death.      .V-id    it 
was  a  relief  to  Madame  Zamoyski  to  :-[)eak  of  Casi- 
mir.     Slie  loved  to  recall  his  last  words,  hir  i,ro,,dness 
and   patich.-e  durinu:  all  his  trouhles  and   liis  trials. 
And  then  rrincc  Adam    had    many  thin-s  to  tell  of 
Casimir's   student   days,  and    incidents   of  the  siege 
of  Modlin,  all  of  which  were  very  intcrestiuLr  to  the 


'il' 


t'A''Mr.V/:7*     .17'    i:i.iM. 


ladies,  ,'is  tln'v  had  iicvor  heard  them  before.  Then 
tile  I'lii'eeot  Moiiaeo  was  very  kiml,  and  tiiade  the 
days  j)Ieasaiil  ior  them  witli  hltle  trii)s  on  his  yaelit. 
The  visit  to  the  islets  of  St.  Honorat  and  Ste.  Mar- 
j^nerite  had  been  espeeially  ])leasant. 

Hut  the  days  at  .Mentone  eame  to  an  etid,  for 
I'rinee  C/artoryski  found  that  it  would  be  necessary 
for  him  to  return  at  once  to  Montfer  iiiel,  and  as 
Trema  and  her  mother  had  accepted  his  invitation 
to  visit  hiia  at  the  eliAteau,  they  began  at  once  to 
prepare  tor  the  journey. 

Tliat  eveiiinLj  Trema  received  a  tnuch  jiost-marked 
letter.  She  opened  it  with  trembling'  i"m.i,'ers  to  find 
that  it  was  from  Beth  Cairns.  Beth  was  ^oinj.;  to  a 
readies'  ColleLre  in  Toronto,  while  Stewart  w.as  at 
the  I'liivvrsity,  as  her  mother  did  not  mind  her  beinj^ 
away  from  home  when  her  brother  was  in  the  satne 
city.  Slie  liked  the  school  very  much.  She  had  been 
home  ar  Ivaster;  and  there  was  so  much  news  to  tell, 
and  she  intended  writin;j^  before,  but  the  excitement 
ofp:oingback  to  school  had  quite  driven  letter  writ- 
ing ftom  her  mind. 

"Just  think.  '  she  wrote,  "  Hilda  Bain  is  going  to 
be  married  to  Dr.  Blair  to-morrow,  .\pril  29th.  Isn't 
it  strange?  Who  woidd  have  thought  it?  Do  you 
remember  the  yacht  race?  Charlie  and  I  were  the 
two  unfortunates  of  the  party.  Dr.  Blair  and  Hilda 
are  going  to  live  at  Vinemount.  But  what  is  the  use 
of  my  telling  you  all  this  when  Mr.  McGlasliar.  keeps 
you  fully  ]M)sted.  I  saw  him  Easter  week,  and  he 
was  looking  very  well— a  little  thin,  pcrliaps,  but 
then  he  is  always  thin.  He  has  been  very  busy,  the}' 
tell  me.     He  and  Leyden  Bell  lire  doing  a  wonderful 


^ 

.•^.,. 


C'A'oM-.v/./i    .17     i:i.i.\i. 


248 


work  .-mioii;,'  the  hoys.  I  haven't  time  to  e.-i)laiii  for 
tlierc  is  the  bell.  The  time  alhitted  to  us  lor  ^orres- 
poiuJence  is  uj),  so  j^'ood-ljye  for  this  time. 

"  Vour  affeitioiuite  friend, 

"  I5i;tii   C.xik.ncs." 

When  Treina  had  read  the  letter  she  llini;.;  luTself 
on  a  eoueli  and  \vei)t  hitterly.     It   was  the  first  word 
she  had  heard  fro-     home   for  months,  and  she  was 
so  lonely.    Then,  it  was  the  end  other  foolish  dreams. 
Siie    had    ima-ined    that   David    was    ill -that  some- 
thinij:  drcadtui  had  haijpened   to  him,  and  ih.it  everv 
one  was  afraid    to  tell  her.      Hut   Hetli    said    he   w.as 
looUin;,^    well,    and    that    he    was    very    bus  v.       Her 
mother  was  ri;j:'ii  ;  he  cared  more  for  his  pari  di  than 
he  did  for  her.     She  was  no  lonj.,'er  anvthinLC  to  him. 
There  was,  besides    no  nope  of  ^cttin^j;  a  letter  from 
him  now,  for  if  Heth's  letter  conld  find  her,  there  was 
no   excnse   for   not  ^^ettin-i^   one   from    him.     It    was 
(|uite  clear  that  he   no  longer  cared  for  hci  .   he  was 
evidently  (piite  contented  to  have  her  in  Ian-ope. 

She  sat  for  honrs  by  the  win(U)w  in  deep  dejec- 
ti(m;  her  face  pale  and  wan;  her  eyes  fi.Ked  on  the 
distant  monntains,  thoii,i,di  sh-'  saw  them  not,  for 
instead  of  hu.i^e  tors  of  red  jjorphyry  risin.L,^  sheer  into 
the  air  from  bases  of  Mediterranean  i)ine  wood,  she 
saw  the  little  town  l)y  the  river,  tlie  Manse  on  the 
hill-top,  and  one  who  was  dearer  than  all  others— 
her  absent  husband.  She  thon.i^dit  of  that  never-to- 
be-forgotten  New  Year's  live,  which  Ikaii  had  re- 
called, and  of  the  happiness  which  li.ifl  shone  in  his 
eyes  when  their  two  yachts  had  anchored  together 
among  the  lotus  leaves.      She  thought  of  the  night 


.., 


244 


CROWXr.D     AT    ELIM. 


of  Ikt  birtlnhiy  party,  wiieti  he  had  asked  her  to  be 
his  wife.  How  happy  they  were.  It  was  a  peep 
into  Para('ise.  Was  there  no  Uive  and  no  constancy 
in  the  world?  She  thought  till  her  head  ached,  and 
then  she  threw  herself  on  her  bed,  but  only  to  toss 
and  moan  the  long  night  ho'^rs  through. 

She  started  on  the  journe\'  in  the  morning  with 
a  headache;  and  neither  her  mother  nor  the  Prince 
knew  how  she  suffered  on  that  trip.  When  they 
arrived  at  Meaux,  Prince  Czartoryski  was  anxious 
that  they  should  see  all  the  interesting  things  to  be 
seen  in  that  ancient  town,  and  conducted  them  here 
and  thero,  till  Trema  was  obli^^d  at  last  to  plead 
weariness,  and  they  went  on  .  Montferniiel.  It 
was  late  at  night  when  they  reached  thei'  destina- 
tion, and  Trema  retired  at  once  to  her  room. 

The  foIl(i^ving  morning,  Filomena  went  to  her 
mistress  saying  that  Mrs.  McGlashan  w-as  talking 
strangely,  and  would  not  say  whether  she  would 
have  her  accustomed  cup  of  coffee.  Madame  Za- 
nioyski  found  her  in  a  raging  fever,  and  wxnt  in 
haste  to  the  Prince,  whcj  at  once  sent  a  s^^rvant  for 
his  physician. 

It  was  a  bad  case  of  brain  fever,  the  doctor  said. 
For  da;,  s  Trema  lay  in  a  state  of  semi-consciousness 
with  but  ov  thought,  terribly  real — that  she  was 
sinking  in  a  waste  of  waters;  the  waves  were  clos- 
ing over  her,  and  she  could  hear  nothing  but  the 
noise  of  their  surging  in  her  ears.  How  tired  she 
was  with  the  continual  buffeting.  Then,  at  last,  she 
seemed  to  rest  on  a  shining  wavelet  of  the  sea.  low 
nwe  it  was  to  rest  after  those  weary  days  and  nights. 
She  hoped  the  sea  would  stay  calm ;  she  would  like 


CROWXEn    AT    ELIM. 


245 


to  glide  on  like  that  forever.  But  suddenly  she 
imagined  that  a  voice  sounded  over  the  waves  like 
a  bell,  and  she  started  up,  saying  anxiously  : 

"  I  must  go ;  David  is  calling  me." 

All  through  the  night  she  kept  repeating  the 
words.  And  she  would  look  up  into  the  faces  of 
the  watchers  and  say  pathetically : 

"  Why  do  you  not  let  me  go  ?  Do  you  not  hear 
him  calling  me?  " 


|i 


If 


I! 


246 


CA'oir.v/;/;    at   elim. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

OXE  day  Prince  Czartoryski  came  from  consult- 
ing the  physician   \.ith   a  grave  face,  for  he 
had    said    that   he    could    do    nothing    more 
till  the  mental  tr()ul)le  which  was  weighing  on   the 
invalid's   mind    was   removed.      The    Prince  sought 
Madame  Zamoyski,  and  Ijcgan  eagerlv  : 

"We  must  send  for  Mr.  Mcf^lashan.  Trema 
wants  him.  His  name  is  constantly  on  her  lips.  We 
must  send  for  him  at  once,  though  i  fear " 

"And  undo  all  m\  .  ork  !  "  Ala  lame  Zamoyski 
broke  in  imi)eriously.  And  then,  for  the  sjiace  of  a 
minute,  there  fell  a  silence  so  profound  that  she  could 
almost  hear  the  heating  of  her  heart;  for  at  her 
words  the  light  of  a  revelation  had  broken  all  over 
the  grave,  stern  face  of  the  Prince.  The  dark  eyes, 
that  had  always  looked  at  her  so  kindly,  now  pierced 
her  very  soul,  and  she  (piailed  before  their  angrv 
brilliance.  What  had  she  done?  The  secret  which 
she  would  have  guarded  with  her  life  was  out;  those 
hasty  words  were  her  undoing.  Slie  would  have 
given  almost  anytliing  to  have  recalled  them. 

"So  that  is  it,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Vou  have  l)cen 
trying  to  se]>arale  your  daughter  and  her  husband. 
That  is  the  weight  that  has  rdmost  crushed  out 
poor   Trema's    life.      Put   what   made  you?      What 


I      li 


CROWXED     AT     I-LIM. 


247 


possessed  you  to   treat  your  child  in  such  an  inhu- 
man manner?  " 

"She  had  married  out  of  her  station."  was  the 
defiant  answer.  "  She  was  destined  for  hi-her  things 
than  to  he  the  wife  of  a  country  parson  in  the  back- 
woods of  Canada." 

"But  her  destiny  was  no  longer  in  vour  keeping. 
The  irrevocable  step  was  taken  when 'she  married. 
Her  place  thereafter  was  by  her  husband's  side, 
whether  he  wao  a  prii.ce  or  peasant.  And,  more- 
over, from  what  I  have  learned  of  David  McGlashan 
I  believe  him  to  be  a  noble  man.  the  peer  of  anv 
woman,  no  matter  what  her  station." 

"Your  opinion,  no  doubt,  has  been  formed  from 
my  daughter's  romantic  ideas,"  she  answered,  with 
curled  lip.  "  But  you  should  not  base  an  opinion  on 
the  authority  only  of  a  young  girl  of  nineteen." 

"Pardon  me.  Madame  Zamoyski,  but  if  I  re- 
member rightly,  you  were  less  than  Trema's  age 
when  you  took  your  fate  into  your  own  hands  and 
married  Casimir  Zamoyski.  I  wil'  not  sav  whether 
you  did  right  or  wrong,  but  surely  under 'those  cir- 
cumstances you  would  allow  your  daughter  liberty 
to  place  her  affections  where  she  chose.  But  the  fact 
remains,  she  is  married;  and  neither  vou.  nor  I,  nor 
anyone  has  the  right  to  attempt  to  estrange  two 
faithful  hearts." 

"It  cannot  be  so  dreadfully  wrong.  Princess 
Mentschakoff  suggested  the  idea',  and  there  is  not  an 
aristocrat  in  St.  Petersburg  who  would  not  al)et  me 
in  what  I  have  done." 

"Oh.  Miriam,  Miriam,  what  has  changed  you? 
You  gave  the    promise    of  noble    v.-onianhood.      I 


'I  " 

1 


248 


CROW  MCI)     AT     ELIM. 


remember  you  as  I  saw  you  twenty-two  years  ajro— 
winsome,  lovin<,^  not  caring  for  au;j;lu  in  all  this 
world  but  your  husband's  love.  When  I  saw  you 
two  years  later  you  were  workin-,-,  slaving,  denying 
yourself  of  the  very  necessities  of  life  for  your  invalid 
husband.  Then  you  undercook  a  journey  on  an 
errand  which  woukl  have  paralyzed  some  women 
with  fear.  Surely  those  were  traitsof  anoljle  nature. 
What  changed  you  that  you  could  do  such  a  wrong? 
Let  me  tell  you— it  was  your  pride.  On  our  first 
acquaintance  I  detected  the  Haw  of  obstinate,  arro- 
gant pride  in  an  otherwise  fair  character.  In  your 
trouble  in  Paris  I  euLreated  you  to  go  toyour  father, 
for  I  had  learned  enough  to  know  that  he  was  long- 
ing for  your  return.  Hut  he,  like  you,  was  proud, 
and  he  would  not  ask  you  back  unless  you  wer.t  to 
him.  I  need  not  recall  your  answer.  He  is  dead. 
You  did  not  know  ?  "  Miriam  had  lifted  her  face,  as 
pale  as  marble. 

"You  knew  and  never  told  me!"  she  exclaimed. 

"Pardon  me;  but  I  had  no  cause  to  know  that 
you  were  interested.  He  left  the  bulk  of  his  property 
to  public  institutions,  seeing  that  for  twenty  years 
you  had  never  troubled  yourself  to  find  out  whether 
he  had  forgiven  you  or  not.  His  solicitor  told  me 
that  he  waited  till  the  last  before  making  his  will, 
hoping  against  hopt  that  you  would  some  day 
return." 

"How  coidd  I  know  that  he  wanted  me?"s]ie 
answered,  angrily.  Her  pride  had  overreached 
itself;  all  of  her  father's  wealth  might  iiavel)een  hers. 

"Your  pride  has  been  the  bane  of  your  life,"  con- 
tinued the  Prince.     "  It  lias  been  the  incentive  to  one 


CROWXED     AT    ELIM.  04.,, 

of  the  most  cruel  acts  that  a  niotiicr  could  indict  on 
her  child.  Was  Air.  AIcGlashan  unkind  to  his  wile 
that  you  wished  to  scpar.-te  them  :^  W.-is  your 
dau-hter  unhappy  in  the  sphere  she  had  chosen? 
Xo;  but  your  pride  must  oe  appeased.  Treina  must 
shme  as  a  star  on  the  society  of  St.  I'etersburLr 
Such  heartlcssnessi  " 

■'I  never  meant '■  she  began,  almost  inaudibl  v. 

"No.  of  course  you  never  meant  anvthin-  so  very 
dreadful  at  that  first  brilliant  oatherin-  in  St.  Peters- 
bur<,^  when  you  saw  how  well  suited  Trema  wns  to 
such  society.  Then  Princess  Mentschakoff  su-gested 
an  idea  to  you.  and  your  thoughts  took  Vleliuitc 
form.  You  lay  awake  at  night  thinking  over  the 
details  of  your  plan ;  it  was  never  absent  from  you 
m  waking  hours  ;  it  came  to  be  the  center  of  all  your 
thoughts     and     actions.       Your    judgment    became 

warped,  and  your  conscience " 

"Spare  me!"  she  cried,  throwing  out  her  hands 
towards  him.  "Do  not  go  over  the  a'.xful  sta-es 
that  have  brought  nic  to  this  hour.  How  vou  know 
It  all  I  cannot  divine;  but  if  I  have  sinned,'this  hour 
of  humiliation  surely  atones  for  it  all." 

Even  in  his  anger,  her  humbled  pride  touched 
him.  Wiien  he  spoke  it  was  in  a  gentler  tone.  "  Mv 
daughter,"  he  said,  "  if  I  have  guessed  at  the  truth  i't 
1^  because  I  am  speaking  out  of  a  Ion- experience 
Sin  seldom  confronts  us  tull-grown  ;  it  crec])s  insid- 
iously into  our  hearts.  Had  tliat  hrst  thou-ht  pre- 
sented itself  to  you  in  its  full  proportions  with  all  its 
disastrous  consequences,  had  you  recounized  it  as  a 
suggestion  from  Satan,  you  would  have  shrunk  from 
It  in  dismay.     But  you  nursed  the  viper  in  vour  heart 


250 


CROWXEn     AT     ELIM. 


till  it  had  mastered  all  your  tlioii;j^1;ts.  It  has  not 
made  the  sin  "greater  to  have  it  diseovered  ;  it  has, 
indeed,  lessened  it.  I-\)r  all  may  yet  result  happily, 
if  you  will  oTdy  <;o  to  Trema  and  Mr.  MeGiashan 
and  tell  them  the  whole  '  tory." 

At  the  mere  sug^estif)n  Madame  Zamoyski's 
pride  svrged  up  a;.^ain.  "  I  certainly  cannot,  and  will 
not,  do  any  such  thing;  not  even  to  restore  my 
daughter's  health.  Her  death  is  to  be  preferred  to 
her  knowing  what  I  have  done,  or  to  her  living  the 
life  of  an  exile  in  that  wilderness  of  the  frozen  North. 
As  for  David  McGlashan,  I'll  risk  his  heart  breaking. 
He  is  too  intent  on  his  parishioners,  and  his  sermons 
on  original  sin,  to  miss  his  young  wife." 

"Madame  Zamoyski  I "  the  Prince  exclaimed 
with  angry  vehemence.  "Do  you  think  for  one 
moment  that  I  shall  condone  your  cruelty?  Just  as 
soon  as  Trema  is  able  to  bear  it,  I  shall  tell  her  all  I 
know  of  this  business,  and  I  shall  tell  her  at  once 
that  David  is  coming.     It  may  help  her." 

"  For  Casimir's  sake,  will  3'ou  not  have  mercy?  " 

"  Casimir's  daughter  is  to  be  considered  as  well 
as  his  wife.  For  such  heartlessness  as  you  have 
shown  I  shall  have  no  mercy." 


!t 


C'A'<Mr.\7;/;     AT     ELI  St. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

TRHMA  was  out  of"  d.-iiij^'er ;  fully  on  the  road 
to  rtcovcry.  But  what  joy  was  it  to  Madame 
Zamoyski  that  her  child's  life  had  been  s])ared, 
since  slie  would  always  look  u])on  her  in(it!icr  with 
deadliest  hate  and  scorn.  Prince  Adam  would  not 
delay  the  recital  of  that  dreadful  story  even  one  dav. 
T'    .li^dit.  Trenia  would  know  all. 

The  ni^dit  was  beautiful  as  Madame  Zamoyski 
knelt  alone  l)y  the  open  window.  The  warm  air 
came  to  her  freighted  with  the  perfume  of  countless 
roses.  Out  on  the  lawn  the  st  tely  old  trees  seemed 
brooding  in  the  soft  moonlight.  Even  the  turbulent 
Marne  was  quiet  that  night,  and  glided  serenelv 
along  in  its  winding  journey  to  join  the  Seine.  It 
was  a  night  to  dream— to  leave  the  prosaic  old  world 
and  float  away  on  the  wings  of  serial  fantasy.  But 
it  was  not  dream-castles,  nor  future  splendor,  nor 
coming  happiness  that  occupied  Madame's  thoughts 
as  slie  knelt  in  the  moonlight  with  her  face  lifted  to 
the  stars. 

Presently  she  threw  out  her  hands  witli  an  im- 
ploring gesture.  "Oh,  Casimir,  do  you  know  up 
there  in  Heaven  how  I  am  suffering?  Did  vcu  ever 
come,  I  wonder,  to  a  place  where  you  seeiiied.  to  1)e 
hedged  in  In-  events  of  your  own  making  ?    And  vou 


252 


CRO\V\r:[>     AT    EI.JM. 


1^ 


were  so  interested  in  the  i)reseiit  liiat  yon  foryot  to 
look  heyciiid  the  he(l;4e,  till,  I)y  a  toiiel)  iVoni  the 
w.'iiid  of  an  aven.^inj;  Nemesis,  the  wall  drcjpjjed  out 
ot  si<,dit.  and  you  were  standin;^  in  the  midst  of  the 
desolation  you  had  made?  Sueli  a  time  has  eome  to 
me,  my  ])eloved,  and  in  the  wilden  ss  of  my  life  there 
are  but  two  paths  left  for  mc.  One  is  lonp,  and  cold, 
and  dreary,  even  tluni-h  it  is  li<,dited  by  your  love. 
For  I  see  you  up  yonder  with  a  coronet  of  stars  in 
your  hand,  like  that  majestic  fi<:[ure  whom  St.  John 
saw  in  his  vision,  and  those  stars  are  lighting  the 
])ath  of  duty  for  me;  but  I  cannot,  cannot  walk  in 
It.  I  cannot  live  on,  and  face  a  scornful  world,  and 
an  accusing  conscience.  I  could  lirave  a  father's 
wrath,  and  face  pr)verty,  and  stand  before  the  Czar 
of  all  the  Russias  for  you,  my  Casimir;  but  I  canned- 
live  on  now. 

".\nd  the  otlier  path?  Oh,  it  is  dreadful!  Did 
the  flowers  ever  smell  sr)  sweet,  or  did  the  moon  ever 
shed  such  a  radiant  light  as  it  does  to-night?  Ye 
are  so  wondrously  beautiful,  earth,  and  sky  and 
stars  :  and  there  are  long  years  of  usefulness  ])efore  a 
woman  who  is  only  thirty-eight.  Little  white  pow- 
der, sliall  I  scatter  you  out  of  the  window?  And 
then  the  sun  will  rise  as  of  old,  and  the  birds  will 
sing  in  the  lovely  s])ring  time,  and  we  shall  all  be 
happy.  No.  no;  there  can  be  no  to-morrow  for  me  ! 
My  child  is  better.  Trince  Adam  is  telling  her  to- 
night. To-morrow  she  will  despise  me.  David 
McCdashan  will  c(  :ne  to  know  all  the  ruin  I  tried  to 
bring  upon  him,  an!  I  shall  be  an  outcast  from  those 
I  hold  dearest.  lUit  when  to-morrow  comes,  perhaps 
when  they  see  me  here,  they  will  think  less  bitterly  of 


J 

,    - 


Ch-<>wy/r[)     AT     ]:i,i\f_ 


368 


f.  t 


me;  and  in  tlie  (luiet  hush  their  tones  will  grow 
tender  when  they  si)eak  of  me.  And  when  vcars 
have  passed  they  will  forget  the  wickedness,'  and 
remember  only  the  good." 

In  the  early  morning  hours  Prince  Adam  was 
aroused  by  Filomena.  She  was  weeping  bitterly, 
makmg  her  broken  French  almost  unintellible,  but 
he  managed  to  gather  that  there  was  something 
wrong  with  her  mistress,  and  following  the  maid,  he 
found  Madame  Zamoyski  kneeling  by  the  window 
evidently  in  a  dreamless  sleej). 

"Miriam.  Miriam!"  he  called,  and  then  drew 
back  with  a  sudden  fear,  for  her  brow  was  cold  with 
the  chill  of  death.  He  stood  for  a  moment  horror- 
stricken.  Could  it  be  possible  that  she  was  dead  ?— 
she  who  last  evening  had  bade  him  farewell  in  all  the 
I)ride  of  life. 

Filomena  had  Hung  herself  by  the  still  kneeling 
figure  of  her  mistress,  and   was  kissing   the  lifeless 
hands  passionately.      Prince  Czartoryski   was   sur- 
prised at  the  young  girl's  excessive  grief.     He  drew 
her  away   from  the   window,  and,  placing  her  on  a 
sofa,  questioned   her  kindly  reg.irding  her  mistress. 
And  she  tcld  him,  in  her  pretty,  foreign  wav,  that  on 
going   the  previous   night   to  assist  her  mistress  to 
disrobe,   she   had   found   her    kneeling    there    in   the 
moonlight,  and  not   wishing  to  disturb  her.  had  sat 
down   in   the   anteroom.  cx])ccting  to  be  called  any 
moment.     Being  very  tired  she  had  fallen  asleep,  and 
only   wakened    when  the  sun  shone  in  the  window. 
And  on  going  to  her  mistress  she  had  found  her  cold 
in  death. 


il 


254 


cix'(>\\\/:ii   AT   i:i.iM. 


"lUit  the  J)<)x!"slic  cried,  with  a  fresh  Imrst  of 
tears,  poiiitiii.i;  with  a  trembhiig  finder  to  a  tiny 
ivory  box  wliicli  lay  on  the  win(h>w  seat. 

"What  about  the  box?"  asked  th-j  IVinee.  t.  kirg 
up  the  easket. 

"Oli.yourllij^hness,!  am  so  wretched.  .\,,'i(l-inic 
Zanioyski  got  that  box  from  me,  and  it  may  have 
tempted  her." 

"  I  (h)  not  understand,"  said  tbe  Prince  in  i)er- 
plexity.     "  Did  tlie  box  contain  anvthin--?" 

"Yes,  your  I- xcellency,"  she  answered,  as  her 
head  drooped  low  in  abject  mis.  ry.  A:  d  then,  no 
loii.yer  al)ie  to  keep  her  secret,  si  e  told  liini  of  how 
she  came  to  !)e  in  (k-rmany  ;  of  her  troul)ics  in  Berlin, 
and  of  Madame  Zamoyski  finding'  iier  in  lie  walk  of 
the  I'nter  den  Linden. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  as  tlie  tears  welled  up 
afresh  in  the  dark  eyes,  "she  who  saved  ine  from  a 
horrible  fate,  is  drad  herself  from  that  fatal  drug. 
What  shall  I  do  now  that  she  is  gone?" 

Prince  Adam  let  her  weep  awhile,  and  then  said, 
kindly  : 

"I  see  that  yon  loved  your  mistress.  Do  vou 
love  lier  daughter,  too  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes;  I  love  them  both— the  Ingliss  ladies." 
"  Y(ju  know   Madame  Mc(;iashan  has  been  verv 


"  Yes,"  lifting  Iier  eyes,  rjucstic  .  'nglv. 

"  .\nd  it  woidd  i.e  very  serious  might  even  jirovc 
fatal  if  she  knew  lliat  her  mother  came  to  her  death 
by  her  own  hand  ?  " 

iMlomc!!,-!  bowed  a  silent  assent 

"Well,  see;  I  will  take  this  box  and  lock  it  awav. 


ch'n\\\i:i)     IV    /;/. /.u  255 

and  when  the  iloctor  comes  'nddhcrs  vvlio  will  ask 
vou  many  (|ucs;  iotis.  you  may  tell  them  of  falling 
asleep  in  the  aiite-chamlier.  and  of  finding  her  here 
bvthe  window  in  the  niornin;.'^;  hut  not  a  word  more 
of  what  you  h;ive  told  me      Do  you  promise?  " 

"Yes,  your  Highness,  i  promise." 

"And  now  for  the  .itfeetion  \'  liich  you  hore  vour 
mistress,  I  shrdl  send  you  home  to  Cai)ri.  I  happen 
to  know  a  family  who  are  going  there  for  a  few 
months,  and  1  shall  m;  ke  arrangements  for  you  to 
Ro  with  them.  Xow,  we  will  break  this  sad  news 
to  the  others  of  niv  household.     Come." 


.VndTrema  never  knew.     Heart  failure  was  given 
as  the  ca'  ^e  of  death,  and   she   acerpted    the  state- 
ment un(iucstioningl  ,.     The  Prmce  had  told  Trema 
of  her  mother  s  death  at  a  time  when  she  was  nurs- 
ing  ,-ei     eful  thoughts  against  her;  for  she  had  been 
most  bittc  ly  angry.      But  when  the  message  came, 
her  anger  clianged  to  sorrow  out  of  which  all  bitter- 
ness was  sifted.      Though  Trem  i  grieved  deeply  for 
her  mother,  yet  the  Prii  -e's  disclosure  had  lifted  from 
her  heart  the  heavy  load   which   she  hafl  borne  for 
months,  and  she  rapidly  gained  in  strength.     Soon 
she  was  able  to  take  a  daily    walk  to  her  mother's 
grave  in   the  little  graveyard   at   Montfermiel,  and 
before  m.ny  weeks  had  elapsed,  they    ..ere  counting 
the  dt-ys  till  they  would  sail  for  America;  for  Prince 
Adam  was  going  to  accompany  her,  though  he  said, 
laughingly,  that  he  would  prove  but  a  feeble  escort, 
as  he  was  now  in  his  seventy-eighth  year. 

They  spent  a  few  days  in  Piris  before  taking  .ship 
for  Canada,  and  to  Trema's  unspeakable   asto!  ish- 


.")(J 


ck'onxi:!)   AT    /:i.iM. 


nicnl.  she  CMC  (lay  .net  Charlie  Kinm'ar..n  ihrAvtnnc 
<lf    I  Opera.      In    the  excess   ..f  l,er   jov    she   scarcdv 
knew  whether  to  ha.i.u^h  or  t<.  erv.     She  made  hin.  ^o 
with  her    to    their    hotel,  ami   on  tlie  wav  i.lie.l  hini 
with  (luestions.     IL-  tohl  her  al.out  liie  eiioiera.  and 
congratulated  iier  on  hein^-  out  of  town  durin-  tiie 
awlu!  time.     When  he  told  her  how  Mr.  McCdashan 
h-nl  worked  amon^'  the  sick  and  dvin-.  she  turned  m, 
pale  that  he  thought  she  was  ^oin^^  to  faint,  and  to 
chan-e  the  sul.ject  he  said  that  he  and  Helh  were  to 
be  married  the  eomin-  winter.    Trema  was  deli-hted 
hut  was  not   so   pleased    when    she  found  that  thev 
wou'd  live  in  Toronto.      She  comforted  herself  with 
the  thou-ht  that  she  would  sometimes  j^o  to  the  citv 
and  visit  r3eth  and  Charlie  in  their  new  home      Two 
days  later  the  Prince  and  Trema  l,a(le  Charlie  fare- 
well, and  set  sail  for  Canada. 


CN()\V.\i:n      \T     LLIM. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


DAVID  McCLASHAN  sat  by  his  study  tabic  ob- 
viously to  prepare  his  strniou  for  the  coming 
Sabbath  morning.  lie  had  chosen  for  his  text 
Jeremiah  viii,  22 :  "Is  there  no  balm  in  (mIckI  ?  Is 
there  no  physician  there?"  Surely  if  any  one  might 
preach  from  those  words  with  accejjtance  it  was  he; 
for  he  had  been  sorely  afflicted  and  had  proved  the 
efficacy  of  that  balm  which  is  mercifully  provided  of 
God  for  our  healing.  On  that  April  day  when  he  had 
been  so  grievously  wounded,  he  had  refused  to  have 
that  sacred  balm  applied  for  his  annointing.  Ihit 
later,  in  those  days  of  renewed  consecration,  he  had 
taken  the  ke\'s  of  all  the  rooms  of  his  soul  to  his 
Physician,  and  laying  them  at  his  feet  had  said  : 

"  Dear  Master,  come  and  choose  where  Thou  wilt 
lodge,  or  what  Thou  wilt  have,  for  all  I  have  's 
Thine."  But  now,  when  he  thought  that  he  was 
living  so  near  to  his  Physician  that  nothing  could 
again  harm  him,  he  felt  all  the  old  bitterness  and 
rebellion  returning.  Why  should  all  loss  and  pain 
and  suffering  be  his  portion  while  others  had  so  little 
to  try  them  ?  he  asked  bitterly-. 

So  he  was  not  composing  his  sermon,  and  he  was 
not  writing  any  of  the  things  tliat  lie  had  intended 
to  write;  he  was  listening,  instead,  for  a  light  foot- 


\'\ 


o-s  c'A''Mr.\7;/)    .17'    ni.iM. 

s'.ei)  on  tlR-  -ravel.  I-:vcn  th(ni-?h  he  knew  that  it 
woiil;l  never  eome  a-ain,  yet  he  liked  to  think  how 
she  would  run  up  the  walk;  how  the  door  would 
open,  and  how  she  would  spring  towards  him  with 
her  nierrv  lau-h  as  of  old.  Or  if  she  were  in  the 
mood  she  would  shove  all  his  books  and  papers 
awav,  with  the  imperious  manner  of  a  young  i)rm- 
cess.  and  l)e-j  him  to  listen  to  what  she  had  to  tell 
him.  Perhai)s  she  would  slip  in  softly,  as  she  used 
to  hn-e  to  do.  and  eovering  his  eyes  with  her  little, 
cool  fingers  keep  them  there  till  he  guessed  who  was 
his  prisoner.     As  if  it  were  hard  to  guess  ! 

To-night  she  seemed  so  near  he  fancied  if  he  put 
out  his  hand  he  could  toucli  her  dress,  or  if  he  turned 
his  head  he  would  fmd  her  standing  there.  But  he 
would  not  turn  his  head,  for  then  the  hallucination 
v.-ould  vanish,  and  he  would  feel  that  cold  grip  ol 
despair  which  alwavs  settled  on  his  h.eart  when  he 
returned  from  those  mouicnts  in  dreamland  to  the 
bitter  reality  of  it  all.  He  thought  it  was  becoming 
a  mania  with  him  to  be  always  listening  for  Trema's 
return,  and  he  tried  for  the  hundredth  time  to  break 
the  spell  which  was  upon  him. 

Suddenly  he  stojjped  in  his  musing,  and  lifted  his 
head  to  listen.  There  ^vns  a  noise  outside.  A  car- 
riage Nvas  stopping  by  the  veranda,  though,  doubt- 
less, it  was  one  of  nis  congregation.  He  heard  the 
front  door  open,  and  Jeanie  give  a  little  cry  of  delight, 
i)ut  he  did  not  stir.  Not  even  when  the  library  door 
was  thrown  open,  and  two  soft  arms  were  clasped 
about  his  neck.  But  when  he  was  almost  smothered 
with  her  kisses  and  she  was  calling  him  V.,  every 
endearing   name  she  had   used   in   the   old  days,  he 


Ch'(>\V\i:i>     AT     HLIM. 


2J9 


knt'w  it  was  no  dream;  yet  he  did  not  stir  or  cry 
out.  He  only  sat  still  and  held  her  in  his  arms  as  if 
he  would  never  let  her  <;o.  He  was  ^lad  with  a  joy 
too  threat  for  speech— he  had  not  the  words  to  ask 
for  explanations.  What  mattered  her  long  absence  ? 
What  mattered  the  lonely  hou/s  now  that  she  was 
there?  And  so  he  held  her  close,  aying  no  word  at 
all.  But  at  last  he  put  her  from  him  and  looked  a* 
her,  and  then  he  knew  that  she,  too.  had  suffered. 
Beautiful  e'le  still  was;  beautiful  she  would  always 
be;  but  days  of  illness  and  suffering  had  left  their 
trace,  unci  her  frail  loveliness  was  emj)liasizc(l  by  the 
dcei)  m<-urning  in  which  she  was  ciatl.  It  seemed  as 
if  he  could  never  feast  his  eyes  enough  upon  that 
loved  face.  Then,  as  if  recalling  something  which  he 
had  forgotten,  he  said  : 

"  Trema,  where  is  your  mother?  You  did  not 
come  alone?  " 

"Oh.  David,"  she  answered,  with  (juivering  lip, 
"do  you  not  know?  Did  you  not  receive  Prince 
Adam's  letter  telling  of  dear  mamma's  death?  He 
came  with  me." 

"  Madame  Zamoyski  dead  !     Is  it  possil)le?  " 

"I  know  how  im])OSsible  her  death  must  seem  to 
vou.  for  she  was  always  in  the  best  ol  health,  ami  tio 
one  ever  suspected  that  she  was  troul)led  with  her 
h.art;  vet  it  was  so.  and  the  end  came  very  sud- 
denly. But  Prince  Adam  says  I  should  not  fret 
about  her  death,  for  she  died  without  any  i)ain;  it 
was  just  like  ialling  asleei).  And  then  she  was  never 
really  ha])py  since  papa  died.  I  reniend)er  that  she 
ofteii  said  she  wished  that  she  was  at  rest.  too. 
£5^il^'*_and   Trema   lifted   her   head   in   surprise— "  if 


« 


200  Ch-'>\VM-:i>     .\T     I-LIM. 

vou  di<l  not  ktiow  oi  nianuna's  dcith.  then  ntnther 

did   y.n,   know    of  tho   other  mattci—of  the  reason 

^'  ''she  -<U  no  further.     The  thought  of  his  generous 
love  in  t7d<inu  her  back  ^vithout  a  word  of  explana- 
tion  overwhehncd   her.      It  seemed    that    td.    that 
moment  she  had  not  caught  even   a  ghmpsc     -    i   -> 
nrineelv   heart,  or  conceived    the  depth  of  his  won- 
derful love.     And  then  the  recollection  of  all  that  she 
had  suffered  since  she  had  parted  from  him  overcame 
licr   and  laving  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  she  wept  as 
it   licr  heart   would   break.     And   he.  knowing  that 
tears   were  good   for   her.  let  her  weep  on.     Severa. 
timrs  she  attempted  to   tell   him   of  the  plot  which 
had   nearlv  ruined   both   their  lives,  but   it  was  so 
hard   to   tell   all;    it   would   make   iiim   feel   bitterly 
towards  her  mother,  who  was  sleeping  far  away  m 
the  little  churchvard  at  Montfermiel.     Yet  ah  must 
be   told,  and  that,  loo.  before  she  introduced  Prince 
Adam,  who  was  waiting  in  the  drawing  room,     ho 
she  gathered  courage  to  Lell  him.  and  as  he  listened 
to  the  recital  a  passionate  intensity  of  perfect  relief 
of  tender,  grateful   peace,  stole  into   Ins   heart   and 
smoothe.l  out   the  lines   upon   his   brow.     What   he 
th  )u-ht   of  Madame   Zamovski  he  did  not  say.  tor 
joybells  of  thankfulness  were  ringhi'/  too  ccstaticahy 
ia'his  heart  to  permit  of  bitter  thoughts. 

When  the  storv  ^.•as  finished,  Trema  took  h.cr 
husband  to  the  drawing-room  to  meet  Pnnce  Cvar- 
tory^ki.  And  when  the  intri  duetion  was  o%-  r.  and 
David  McCdashan  had  given  his  guest  a  eordia 
greeting,  then,  indeed,  tongues  were  loosed  and 
si)eech  flowed  treely. 


CHowxnn   AT   i:Li\f. 


261 


Meanwhile,  in  the  dining-room,  Mrs.  Lindsay 
was  se1jctin<?  the  finest  table-linen,  and  taking  the 
])est  silver  from  its  many  \vrappin«,'s,  for  were  they 
not  to  entertain  a  real,  live  Prince?  And  Jeanie,  in 
the  kitchen,  was  capering  around  in  delight,  at  the 
imminent  risk  of  spoiling  the  oysters  which  she  was 
])rei)arin,<; ;  for  those  had  been  sad  months  when  the 
voimg  mistress  was  away. 

It   was   the  next  evening  at  sunset  that  David 
McGlashan  and  his  voung  wife  were  standing  on  the 
balcony  overlooking  the  river.     She  had  been  very 
busv  that  dav.     With  girlish  eagerness  she  wanted 
to  see  everything;  and  much  had  taken  place  in  those 
months  of  absence.    She  had  examined  all  the  im- 
provcnents.   and  even   David   was  satisfied   at  her 
dcli'dit  in  all  that  he  had  done.    She  was  delighted 
to  have  Hilda  for  a  neighbor.     She  had  been   over 
Yinemount  and  praised  it  all  till  the  young  bnde 
blushed  with  pleasure.    She  had  listened  with  sym- 
pathetic attention  to  her  husband's  vivid  description 
of  those  awful  davs  of  cholera,  and  was  so  grieved 
at  all  the  poor  villagers  had  suffcied,  that  her  hus- 
band saw  most  plainly  that  -ler  heart  was  ^ndeed  in 

the  little  town. 

"I  believe  vou  are  really  glad  to  get  back,  he 
said,  smiling,  "'and  that  you  did  sometimes  think  of 
us  all  at  Riverside." 

"It  would  quite  spoil  you,  sir,  to  know  how 
many  precious  hours  I  wasted  thinking  of  you,"  she 
replied,  playfully.  Her  husband  smiled,  too.  and 
then  b'?  +ace  became  suddenly  grave.  It  was  so  un- 
utte-  ablv  pathetic  to  see  her  trying  to  cover  all  her 


202 


ch'n\v\r:n   at   ei.im 


suffering  in  thnt  light  wav.  For  1  •  had  learned  that 
niorning  from  Prince  A'lam  how  very  ill  ^he  had 
been;  how  she  had  been  1)roi.^  •  back  to  him  from 
the  brink  of  the  river  of  death,  'i  he  Prin  "  ha<'  old 
him,  too,  of  those  hours  of  delirium  in  which  she  had 
called  incessantly  for  him. 

Trema  looked  up  at  the  ^rave  ""ace  bent  above 
her.  She  saw  the  tender  solici  ide  wrif  n  there, 
and  her  face  became  sweetlv  serious  as  she  cimti    ued: 

"Indeed,  you  do  n(»t  low,  yoi  cannot  guess, 
how  I  longed  to  be  home  again,  '^^'iglit  ainid  the  gay 
scenes  of  St.  Petersburg,  and  the  beauties  of  Ger- 
many and  of  Switzerlan<l,  which  mamma  was  so 
anxious  that  I  -hould  see,  I  longed  for  you  and 
Riverside.  I  uiiL'lu  as  well  have  been  journeying 
through  a  wilderness,  for  my  lieart  was  not  there. 
I  thought  of  the  Children  of  Israel,  and  Riverside 
seemed  to  me  like  Hlim  When  I  was  so  ill  and  ^o 
weary,  those  bi'atitiful  lines  written  by  Mrs.  Ju(ison 
on  the  encampment  of  the  Israelites  at  Ivlim,  re- 
j)eated  themselves  in  my  memory  with  a  persistencv 
that  made  my  poor  brr.in  wearv  : 

'  Willi  t::v^vv  hasto,  the  iViiiuinq;  pil^jriiiis  rush, 
Where  I-;iiin'-i  eool  ;ui(l  s;Krc(i  waters  f,nish  ; 
I'rono  1)11  the  liaiik.  \v!ure  iinirnitiriii;;  fountains  flow, 
Tlieir  wearied,  taintinp,  listless  forms  thev  throw.' 

And  SO  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  would  never  feel  rested 
till  I  was  b;ick  at  Riverside. 

"  In  my  (bwim-  I  could  see  it  all— the  river  rij)- 
pli?ig  in  a  low  murmur  (jver  the  pebliles  between  the 
great  high  rocks;  the  green  fields,  dotted  with  daisies 
and  buttcrc'.ips,  and  the  Manse  up  here  on  the 
height.      I  could  ieel  the  silent  freshness  of  the  Mav 


It 


ci<(>n\i-n    AT    i-i.iM. 


203 


morninj^s,  when  tiie  orioles  .siiii,'  in  the  orchards,  oiul 
the  violets  are  first  lifting  their  shy  heads  to  the  sun. 
I  could  feel  a.u'ain  the  inelTable  stillness  of  the  nights 
in  June,  when  the  roses  nod  sleepily  to  one  anothcr- 
and  a  scent  of  lilacs  is  in  the  soft,  warm  air.  You 
see  how  very  tired  I  must  have  l>een  of  the  glitter 
of  courts  and  the  pomp  of  social  life.  Though  I  did 
sympathize  with  uear  papa,  when  I  saw  the  grand 
old  Zamoyski  palace  in  Warsaw,  and  I  could  well 
understand  how  he  wished  to  he  reinstated  in  the 
old  home  It  was  his  ambition  that  I  should  wear 
the  coronet  of  some  Polish  house;  Init  all  the  court 
I  care  for  is  my  home,  and  you  liave  crowned  mc 
with  vour  love." 


;    r>«.s   "i^iRinnQ  -. 


